I    LIBRARY     I 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 

I       SAN  DIEGO       ! 


o.? 


SYLVANDER  AND  CLARINDA 


Syfrander 

and* 

Gfarfnda 


of 

tRgderf  (Burns 


and 


ScGfecC  By 


COPYRIGHT,  1917. 
BY    GEORGE   H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN  THE  UNITED   STATES   OP  AMERICA 


"The  sight  of  human  affairs  deserves  admiration 
and  pity.  They  are  worthy  of  respect,  too.  And 
he  is  not  insensible  who  pays  them  the  undemon- 
strative tribute  of  a  sigh  which  is  not  a  sob,  and 
of  a  smile  which  is  not  a  grin." 

JOSEPH  CONRAD. 


IN  the  most  forbidding  tragic  mask  one  finds 
lines  of  mirth,  and  the  loudest  laughter  has  its 
origin  in  the  pain  of  somebody — it  may  be,  the 
laugher's  own;  for  Comedy  and  Tragedy  are 
like  the  Siamese  Twins,  inseparably  united  and 
sharing  the  same  springs  of  life.  The  represen- 
tation of  them  as  two  distinctly  individual  sisters 
is  one  of  the  pretty  inventions  with  which  we 
have  tried  to  soften  and  embellish  the  stark  face 
of  nature.  This  book  is  for  those  who  are  not 
afraid  to  look  in  that  face  as  it  is,  and  beyond  it 
to  the  spirit  that  underlies  its  beauty  and  its  ugli- 
ness, its  laughter  and  its  tears.  Here  is  a  story 
on  an  old  theme — "infinite  passion  and  the  pain 
of  finite  hearts  that  yearn."  You  may  pity  the 
people  who  enact  it,  you  may  despise  them, — you 
may  laugh  at  them,  and  probably  will,  at  the 
moments  when  they  take  themselves  most  seri- 
ously, for  this  is  a  crude  draught  of  reality,  not 
strained  through  the  prejudices  of  an  interpreter. 
It  is  for  each  reader  to  understand  the  man  and 
the  woman  who  spread  more  or  less  of  their  hearts 

— vii — 


INTRODUCTION 


on  paper  in  the  letters  that  follow,  as  one  con- 
jectures about  a  similar  happening  among  one's 
acquaintance.  Did  she  have  all  of  him  that  she 
eared  to  take,  considering  the  cost  of  more?  Or 
was  the  old  resident  of  Edinburgh  right  when 
he  said  "The  puir  auld  donnert  leddy  body  spoke 
o'  her  love  for  the  poet  just  like  a  bit  hellicat 
lassie  in  her  teens,  an'  while  exhibitin'  to  her 
cronies  the  faded  letters  from  her  Robbie,  she 
would  just  greet  like  a  bairn.  Puir  auld  crea- 
ture, she  never  till  the  moment  of  her  death  jal- 
oused  or  dooted  Robbie's  love  for  her;  but  sir, 
you  ken  he  was  just  makin'  a  fule  o'  her,  as  his 
letters  amply  show."  Do  they  show  it  so  amply? 
or  do  they  show  the  man  whose  wooings  usually 
strode  so  swift  and  heavy-footed  toward  one  sim- 
ple brutal  goal,  for  once  offering  reverently  the 
worship  of  his  mind  and  spirit,  while  the  body  he 
had  so  pitifully  squandered  stands  humbly  aside, 
all  but  silent  in  its  hopeless  desire?  Do  not  be 
discouraged  by  the  grotesqueries  of  stilted  lan- 
guage in  Dick  Swiveller's  vein — remember  that 
these  are  not  puppets  of  a  writer's  imagination, 
veined  with  verses  and  with  adjectives  for  blood, 
but  a  real  man  and  woman  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, creatures  of  high-running  passion  for  all  the 
pompous  phrases  of  their  time,  who  lived  far 
— viii — 


INTRODUCTION 


more  than  they  wrote.  This  strange  sudden  love 
of  theirs — was  it  mere  fancy,  or  was  it,  for  one 
of  them  at  least,  that  rare  apotheosis  of  sex  which 
comes  suddenly  from  the  darkness  upon  human 
beings,  wrestles  with  them  as  did  the  angel  with 
Jacob,  and  leaves  them  transfigured  or  broken, 
but  never  unchanged?  Decide  for  yourself, 
reader.  I  know  what  I  believe, — but  I  will  not 
try  to  impose  my  opinion  upon  you.  I  will  only 
bring  you  to  the  beginning  of  their  story,  on  a 
winter  night  of  1787— 

No.  Had  that  been  indeed  the  beginning,  the 
end  would  have  been  quite  other  than  it  is. 
Rather  did  their  story  begin  twenty-eight  years 
before,  with  the  birth  of  this  man  and  this 
woman  who  came  toward  each  other  from  such 
different  social  spheres,  trailing  not  clouds  of 
glory  but  the  rags  of  sordid  experience  and 
ruined  hope.  Life  had  already  marred  them  both 
— and  for  all  that  is  to  follow,  let  the  first  stone 
be  cast  by  the  one  who  is  near  enough  divinity 
to  make  into  holy  stigmata  the  scars  of  his  own 
sin  and  folly.  Only,  a  stone  would  never  come 
from  such  a  hand. 

Let  us  look  at  them,  then,  as  they  were  at  their 
meeting,  with  a  glance  at  the  past  which  has  left 
its  print  on  them.  You  will  find  them  in  Edin- 

— ix — 


INTRODUCTION 


burgh.  The  bleak  December  sunset  is  over;  twi- 
light has  given  the  grim  grey  city  the  rich  colour- 
ing of  old  tapestry.  The  tall  gaunt  buildings  are 
mellowed  to  amethyst,  and  the  Castle,  high  on  its 
rock  above  them,  gathers  to  itself  all  the  blue  of 
the  parting  day  till  it  glows  like  a  sapphire  under 
the  first  stars.  With  the  darkness,  Edinburgh 
becomes  a  firmament  of  lighted  windows.  In  one 
of  these  little  planets  of  sociability  that  sends  its 
ray  out  into  the  cold  street,  the  estimable  spinster 
Miss  Nimmo  is  giving  a  tea-party  for  the  special 
purpose  of  bringing  together  two  gifted  friends 
of  hers,  Mrs.  Agnes  M'Lehose  and  Mr.  Robert 
Burns.  Mrs.  M'Lehose  has  been  anxious  to  meet 
this  astonishing  young  man  who  has  captured  not 
only  the  fashionable  mind  but  the  popular  heart 
— at  once  a  more  difficult  and  a  more  enduring 
conquest — but  he  has  been  so  extravagantly  the 
fashion  that  it  could  not  be  arranged  till  this  eve- 
ning, when  his  stay  in  town  is  nearly  at  an  end. 
Mrs.  Cockburn  writes  to  a  friend,  "The  man  will 
be  quite  spoiled,  if  he  can  spoil ;  but  he  keeps  his 
simple  manners,  and  is  quite  sober.  No  doubt  he 
will  be  at  the  Hunters'  Ball  to-morrow,  which  has 
made  all  women  and  milliners  mad.  Not  a  gauze- 
cap  under  two  guineas — many  ten,  twelve." 

Even  in  the  face  of  the  gauze-caps,  Mr.  Burns 

— x — 


INTRODUCTION 


holds  his  own.  Although  he  still  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  handsome  young  farmer  dressed  in  his 
best  to  dine  with  the  laird,  he  has  learned  the 
manners  of  the  world  without  losing  his  own.  He 
no  longer  skirts  the  edge  of  the  room  to  avoid 
treading  on  the  carpets.  Socially  he  is  self-pos- 
sessed and  modest,  popular  among  the  men  as  a 
thoroughly  good  fellow  who  can  tell  a  racy  story 
and  sing  a  rattling  song,  and  a  great  favourite 
among  the  ladies  in  spite  of  his  glaring  record  as 
a  rural  Don  Juan.  In  spite  of  it?  Dante  was 
not  the  first  nor  the  last  poet  to  appeal  with 
success  to  "Donne  che  avete  intelletto  d'amore." 
If  the  gentle  creatures  are  not  intelligent  in  love, 
they  like  to  think  they  are.  In  the  case  of  Burns, 
the  ladies  who  read  "The  Lament"  and  sighed 
over  the  pathos  of  that  destroyed  marriage  certifi- 
cate, must  have  accorded  him  all  the  prestige  of 
a  martyr.  Of  the  ugly  consequences  of  his 
"eclatant  return  to  Mauchline,"  society  in  general 
probably  knew  nothing.  But  as  the  woman  with 
whom  we  are  concerned  certainly  did  know,  and 
loved  him  with  all  her  knowledge,  she  must  have 
seen  the  matter  from  his  point  of  view, — a  point 
of  view  that  we  must  try  to  get  if  we  are  to  un- 
derstand him,  or  her.  It  is  unquestionable  that 
Burns  was  very  much  in  love  with  his  Jean,  and 

• — xi— « 


INTRODUCTION 


that  her  acquiescence  in  her  father's  high  handed 
annulment  of  their  tardy  marriage  was  a  harsh 
blow  not  only  to  his  pride  but  to  his  heart.  His 
pain  seems  to  have  festered  into  resentment, 
made  all  the  worse  by  finding  that  his  change  in 
fortunes  brought  a  corresponding  change  in  his 
treatment  by  the  family.  Old  Armour  preferred 
his  daughter's  dishonour  to  her  marriage  with 
Burns?  Very  well.  If  these  were  the  terms  of 
father  and  daughter,  Burns  would  abide  by  them 
when  he  found  himself,  as  the  fashionable  and 
successful  poet,  quite  the  welcome  visitor.  There 
is  no  passion  more  cruelly  unreasoning  than  hurt 
pride.  He  did  not  realise  that  the  meek  tender- 
ness which  made  Jean  yield  to  him  would  make 
her  submit  also  to  the  imperious  will  of  her  fa- 
ther. Embittered,  he  saw  her  patient  generosity 
only  as  slavish  weakness ;  and  strange  as  it  is,  we 
may  believe  that  when  he  left  Mauchline  in  June 
of  1787  he  actually  did  feel  no  moral  obligation 
to  the  girl  who  for  a  second  time  faced  through 
him  the  long  agonising  ordeal  of  an  unsanctioned 
motherhood.  As  he  saw  it,  he  had  not  wronged 
her,  this  time — he  had  only  accepted  the  status 
that  had  formerly  been  forced  upon  him.  Doubt- 
less he  went  his  way  with  his  head  high,  feeling 
that  he  had  shown  himself  a  man  not  to  be  trifled 
— xii — 


INTRODUCTION 


with — the  pity  of  it!  Once  back  in  Edinburgh, 
little  time  was  given  him  for  thought,  or  for  re- 
gret, had  he  been  so  inclined.  When  he  went  to 
Miss  Nimmo's  tea-party,  he  was  surely  a  little 
tired,  and  probably  a  little  dazed,  a  little  intoxi- 
cated with  his  round  of  city  gaieties,  although  we 
are  told  that  he  had  kept  his  head  impeccably. 
Well,  the  time  is  near  when  he  is  to  lose  it — and 
how  much  more,  I  will  not  try  to  say.  He  hardly 
suspects  this,  I  think — he  is  so  sure  of  himself  as 
"an  old  Hawk  at  the  game," — as  he  gazes  with 
his  usual  impressive  manner  into  the  eyes  of  the 
rosy  little  beauty  whom  he  had  been  invited  to 
meet.  He  has  wonderful  eyes,  this  clod  of  Ayr- 
shire clay  shot  with  fire  from — Heaven  or  Hell? 
both,  maybe— great  dark  eyes  that  glow  as  from 
an  inward  consuming  flame.  An  interesting  ac- 
quaintance for  a  lady  who  likes  to  play  with  com- 
bustibles, but  rather  dangerous.  Mrs.  M'Lehosey 
however,  has  a  right  to  some  confidence  in  her 
own  skilful  handling  of  high  explosives.  She  is 
a  lady  of  experience,  which  she  did  not  get 
cheaply.  Daughter  of  a  comfortable  Glasgow 
doctor,  the  pretty  Miss  Nancy  was  a  recognised 
toast  when  still  only  a  child.  At  fifteen,  she  went 
up  to  Edinburgh  that  six  months  of  metropolitan 
polish  might  be  applied  to  a  sketchy  smattering 

J — xiii— • 


INTRODUCTION 


of  genteel  accomplishments  that  can  hardly  be 
called  an  education  even  by  courtesy.  Mr.  M'Le- 
hose,  a  young  law  agent  who  had  vainly  sought 
an  introduction  to  the  little  belle,  made  the  bold 
play  of  booking  all  the  seats  except  the  one  re- 
served for  Miss  Craig.  Fair  lady  and  heart  by 
no  means  faint,  a  day's  journey  with  a  long  noon 
halt, — could  courtship  have  a  more  auspicious  be- 
ginning? In  spite  of  the  dissuasions  of  her  fam- 
ily and  friends,  who  hoped  for  a  more  brilliant 
match,  the  pretty  Miss  Nancy  celebrated  July  of 
1776  with  a  little  Independence  Day  of  her  own 
— the  last  she  was  to  know,  poor  child.  This 
seventeen-year-old  bride  soon  made  the  not  un- 
precedented discovery  that  an  audacious  and 
charming  suitor  may  develop  into  an  excessively 
disagreeable  husband.  The  annual  babies,  poor 
sickly  mites,  were  no  proof  of  domestic  harmony; 
on  the  contrary,  the  M'Lehose  household  was  the 
scene  of  such  rapidly  and  constantly  increasing 
incompatibility  that  a  separation  took  place  after 
four  stormy  years.  Doctor  Craig  took  his  daugh- 
ter home  again,  but  only  lived  to  shelter  her  two 
years.  He  did  his  canny  best  for  her  by  leaving 
her  inheritance  in  the  form  of  an  annuity  entirely 
beyond  her  husband's  reach.  This,  while  suffi- 
cient for  herself,  would  not  provide  for  the  three 
— xiv — 


INTRODUCTION 


surviving  children — they  were  all  delicate,  and 
only  one  lived  to  manhood.  Mr.  M'Lehose,  whose 
liberality  seems  to  have  exhausted  itself  in  his 
one  monumental  extravagance  and  upon  whom 
responsibilities  sat  lightly,  refused  to  contribute 
to  their  support,  and  presently  sailed  for  Jamaica 
at  the  earnest  request  of  his  relatives,  who  were 
tired  of  paying  his  debts.  A  small  annual  sub- 
scription was  raised  for  the  young  pseudo-widow 
among  the  Glasgow  writers,  and  another  among 
the  surgeons,  but  even  so  her  establishment  in 
Edinburgh  was  very  largely  dependent  on  the 
contributions  of  benevolent  friends,  chief  among 
whom  was  her  cousin,  Lord  Craig.  She  was  a 
very  popular  little  lady,  for  trouble  did  not  rob 
her  of  her  beauty  nor  of  her  spirits.  At  twenty- 
eight,  she  is  even  more  attractive  than  the  pretty 
miss  for  whose  bright  eyes  Mr.  M'Lehose  bought 
up  the  coach.  To  begin  with,  she  has  wisely 
spent  much  time  in  study — of  no  very  profound 
character,  to  be  sure,  but  highly  ornamental  in  its 
results.  She  has  read  the  best  English  authors 
and  can  quote  from  them  tellingly,  for  she  has  a 
natural  taste  for  letters,  and  indeed  can  herself 
turn  a  musical  verse.  With  all  her  brilliancy, 
a  little  hard — well,  is  it  strange  that  she  has 
grown  hard,  as  she  has  found  life  to  be?  Four 

— xv — 


INTRODUCTION 


children  of  a  worthless  husband  in  as  many  years 
tend  to  do  away  with  a  woman's  fine  generosities 
as  well  as  with  her  illusions.  When  she  gave 
life  its  full  price,  it  cheated  her.  She  does  not 
mean  to  be  caught  that  way  again;  her  future 
bargains  with  this  shifty  dealer  must  be  on  her 
own  terms.  She  has  arranged  the  outward  cir- 
cumstances of  her  little  world  as  nearly  to  her 
satisfaction  as  she  can;  but  she  is  the  type  of 
woman  who  cannot  live  on  her  own  resources. 
She  must  have  stimuli  from  without.  Her  poor 
little  heart  is  lonely  in  her  comfortable,  albeit 
somewhat  shaky  structure  of  worldly  security. 
She  wants  to  find  a  guest  who  will  accommo- 
date himself  to  its  cramped  quarters  and  warm 
them  with  the  right  Promethean  fire, — one  who 
will  enter  ardently,  and  yet  with  a  tread  dis- 
creet enough  for  the  none  too  secure  floors  to 
.bear.  She  wants,  in  short,  a  lover  who  will  offer 
his  passionate  devotions  at  her  shrine  in  the  de- 
cent name  of  a  Friendship  which  shall  offend 
none  of  her  benevolent  friends.  And  it  is  Robert 
Burns — of  all  men! — whom  she  chooses. 


SYLVANDER  AND  CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER 

AND 
CLARINDA 

ROBERT  BURNS  TO  AGNES  M'LEHOSE 

December  6, 1787. 

MADAM, — I  had  set  no  small  store  by  my  tea- 
drinking  to-night,  and  have  not  often  been  so 
disappointed.  Saturday  evening  I  shall  embrace 
the  opportunity  with  the  greatest  pleasure.  I 
leave  this  town  this  day  se'ennight,  and  probably 
I  shall  not  return  for  a  couple  of  twelvemonths ; 
but  I  must  ever  regret  that  I  so  lately  got  an 
acquaintance  I  shall  ever  highly  esteem,  and  in 
whose  welfare  I  shall  ever  be  warmly  interested. 
Our  worthy  common  friend,  Miss  Nimmo,  in  her 
usual  pleasant  way,  rallied  me  a  great  deal  on 
my  new  acquaintance ;  and,  in  the  humour  of  her 
ideas  I  wrote  some  lines,  which  I  enclose  you,  as 
I  think  they  have  a  good  deal  of  poetic  merit;* 

*  It  is  a  pity  that  these  lines  of  Burns  have  been  lost,  as  he  wai 
not  in  the  habit  of  praising  his  own  work. 

— 17— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


and  Miss  Nimmo  tells  me  you  are  not  only  a 
critic  but  a  poetess.  Fiction,  you  know,  is  the 
native  region  of  poetry;  and  I  hope  you  will  par- 
don my  vanity  in  sending  you  the  bagatelle  as  a 
tolerable  offhand  jeu-d' esprit.  I  have  several  po- 
etic trifles  which  I  shall  gladly  leave  with  Miss 
Nimmo,  or  you,  if  they  were  worth  house-room; 
as  there  are  scarcely  two  people  on  earth  by  whom 
it  would  mortify  me  more  to  be  forgotten,  though 
at  the  distance  of  nine-score  miles.  I  am, 
Madam,  with  the  highest  respect,  your  very  hum- 
ble servant, 

ROBT.  BURNS. 

Thursday  Evening. 


SYLVANDEB,  AND   CLARINDA 


BURNS  TO  MRS.  M'LEHOSE 

December  8, 1787. 

I  can  say  with  truth,  Madam,  that  I  never 
met  with  a  person  in  my  life  whom  I  more  anx- 
iously wished  to  meet  again  than  yourself.  To- 
night I  was  to  have  had  that  very  great  pleasure 
- — I  was  intoxicated  with  the  idea ;  but  an  unlucky 
fall  from  a  coach  has  so  bruised  one  of  my  knees, 
that  I  can't  stir  my  leg  off  the  cushion:  so  if 
I  don't  see  you  again,  I  shall  not  rest  in  my  grave 
for  chagrin.  I  was  vexed  to  the  soul  I  had  not 
seen  you  sooner;  I  am  determined  to  cultivate 
your  friendship  with  the  enthusiasm  of  Religion; 
but  thus  has  Fortune  ever  served  me.  I  cannot 
bear  the  idea  of  leaving  Edinburgh  without  see- 
ing you.  I  know  not  how  to  account  for  it — I 
am  strangely  taken  with  some  people ;  nor  am  I 
often  mistaken.  You  are  a  stranger  to  me;  but 
I  am  an  odd  being;  some  yet  unnamed  feelings 
• — things,  not  principles,  but  better  than  whims 
— carry  me  farther  than  boasted  reason  ever  did 
a  Philosopher.  Farewell  I  every  happiness  be 
yours! 

ROBT.  BURNS. 

Saturday  Evening, 

St.  James  Square,  No.  2. 


SYLVANDEE  AND   CLARINDA 


MRS.  M'LEHOSE  TO  ROBERT  BURNS 

Enured  as  I  have  been  to  disappointments,  I 
never  felt  more,  nay,  nor  half  so  severely,  for  one 
of  the  same  nature!  The  cruel  cause,  too,  aug- 
ments my  uneasiness.  I  trust  you'll  soon  recover 
it;  meantime,  if  my  sympathy,  my  friendship, 
can  alleviate  your  pain  be  assured  you  possess 
them.  I  am  much  flattered  at  being  a  favourite 
of  yours.  Miss  Nimmo  can  tell  you  how  ear- 
nestly I  had  long  pressed  her  to  make  us  ac- 
quainted. I  had  a  presentiment  that  we  should 
derive  pleasure  from  the  society  of  each  other. 
To-night  I  had  thought  of  fifty  things  to  say  to 
you;  how  unfortunate  this  prevention!  Do  not 
accuse  Fortune;  had  I  not  known  she  was  blind 
before,  her  ill-usage  of  you  had  marked  it  suffi- 
ciently. However,  she  is  a  fickle,  old,  envious 
beldame,  and  I'd  much  rather  be  indebted  to 
Nature.  You  shall  not  leave  town  without  seeing 
me,  if  I  should  come  along  with  good  Miss 
Nimmo  and  call  for  you.  I  am  determined  to 
see  you;  and  am  ready  to  exclaim  with  Yorick, 
"Tut!  are  we  not  all  relations?"  We  are,  in- 
deed, strangers  in  one  sense;  but  of  near  kin  in 
many  respects:  these  "nameless  feelings"  I  per- 
fectly comprehend,  tho'  the  pen  of  a  Locke  could 

—20— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


not  define  them.  Perhaps  instinct  comes  nearer 
their  description  than  either  "Principles  or 
Whims."  Think  ye  they  have  any  connection 
with  that  "heavenly  light  which  leads  astray?" 
One  thing  I  know,  that  they  have  a  powerful  ef- 
fect upon  me ;  and  are  delightful  when  under  the 
check  of  reason  and  religion. 

Miss  Nimmo  was  a  favourite  of  mine  from  the 
first  hour  I  met  her.  There  is  a  softness,  a  name- 
less something  about  her  that,  were  I  a  man,  old 
as  she  is,  I  would  have  chosen  her  before  most 
women  that  I  know.  I  fear,  however,  this  lik- 
ing is  not  mutual.  I'll  tell  you  why  I  think  so, 
at  meeting.  She  was  in  mere  jest  when  she  told 
you  I  was  a  Poetess.  I  have  often  composed 
rhyme  (if  not  reason),  but  never  one  line  of  po- 
etry. The  distinction  is  obvious  to  every  one  of 
the  least  discernment.  Your  lines  were  truly  po- 
etical ;  give  me  all  you  can  spare.  Not  one  living 
has  a  higher  relish  for  poetry  than  I  have;  and 
my  reading  everything  of  the  kind  makes  me  a 
tolerable  judge.  Ten  years  ago,  such  lines  from 
such  a  hand  would  have  half -turned  my  head. 
Perhaps  you  thought  it  might  have  done  so  even 
yet,  and  wisely  premised  that  "Fiction  was  the 

native  region  of  poetry."     Read  the  enclosed, 

—21— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


which  I  scrawled  just  after  reading  yours.*  Be 
sincere,  and  own  that,  whatever  merit  it  has,  it 
has  not  a  line  resembling  poetry.  Pardon  any 
little  freedoms  I  take  with  you ;  if  they  entertain 
a  heavy  hour,  they  have  all  the  merit  I  intended. 
Will  you  let  me  know,  now  and  then,  how  your 
leg  is?  If  I  was  your  sister,  I  would  call  and 
see  you;  but  'tis  a  censorious  world  this,  and  (in 
this  sense)  "y°u  and  I  are  not  of  this  world." 
Adieu.  Keep  up  your  heart,  you  will  soon  get 
well,  and  we  shall  meet.  Farewell.  God  bless 
you! 

A.  M. 

*  These  verses  also  have  been  lost. 


—22— 


SYLVANDEB,  AND   CLARINDA 


ROBERT  BURNS  TO  MRS.  M'LEHOSE 

Dec.  12, 1787. 

I  stretch  a  point  indeed,  my  dearest  Madam, 
when  I  answer  your  card  on  the  rack  of  my 
present  agony.  Your  friendship,  Madam!  By 
heavens,  I  was  never  so  proud  before.  Your 
lines,  I  maintain  it,  are  poetry,  and  good  poetry ; 
mine  were  indeed  partly  fiction,  and  partly  a 
friendship  which,  had  I  been  so  blest  as  to  have 
met  with  you  in  time,  might  have  led  me — God  of 
love  only  knows  where.  Time  is  too  short  for 
ceremonies. 

I  swear  solemnly — in  all  the  tenor  of  my  for- 
mer oath — to  remember  you  in  all  the  pride  and 
warmth  of  friendship  until — I  cease  to  be  I 

To-morrow,  and  every  day,  till  I  see  you,  you 
shall  hear  from  me. 

Farewell!  May  you  enjoy  a  better  night's 
repose  than  I  am  likely  to  have. 


SYLVANDEE   AND   CLARINDA 


MRS.  M'LEHOSE  TO  ROBERT  BURNS 

Sunday  Noon,  Dec.  16, 1787. 

Miss  Nimmo  and  I  had  a  long  conversation 
last  night.  Little  did  I  suspect  that  she  was  of 
the  party.  Gentle,  sweet  soul!  She  is  accusing 
herself  as  the  cause  of  your  misfortune.  It  was 
in  vain  I  rallied  her  upon  such  an  excess  of  sensi- 
bility— as  I  termed  it.  She  is  lineally  descended 
from  "My  Uncle  Toby" ;  has  hopes  of  the  devil, 
and  would  not  hurt  a  fly.  How  could  you  tell 
me  that  you  were  in  "agony"?  I  hope  you  will 
swallow  laudanum,  and  procure  some  ease  from 
sleep.  I  am  glad  to  hear  Mr.  Wood  attends  you. 
He  is  a  good  soul  and  a  safe  surgeon.  I  know 
him  a  little.  Do  as  he  bids,  and  I  trust  your  leg 
will  soon  be  quite  well.  When  I  meet  you,  I 
must  chide  you  for  writing  in  your  romantic 
style.  Do  you  remember  that  she  whom  you  ad- 
dress is  a  married  woman?  or — Jacob-like — 
would  you  wait  seven  years,  and  even  then  per- 
haps be  disappointed,  as  he  was?  No;  I  know 
you  better:  you  have  too  much  of  that  impetu- 
osity which  generally  accompanies  noble  minds. 
To  be  serious,  most  people  would  think,  by  your 
style,  that  you  were  writing  to  some  vain,  silly 
woman  to  make  a  fool  of  her — or  worse.  I  have 

—24— 


SYLVANDEB  AND   CLARINDA 


too  much  vanity  to  ascribe  it  to  the  former  mo- 
tive, and  too  much  charity  to  harbour  an  idea  of 
the  latter;  and  viewing  it  as  the  effusion  of  a' 
benevolent  heart  upon  meeting  one  similar  to 
itself,  I  have  promised  you  my  friendship :  it  will 
be  your  own  fault  if  I  ever  withdraw  it.  Would 
to  God  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  give  you  some 
solid  proofs  of  it !  Were  I  the  Duchess  of  Gor- 
don, you  should  be  possessed  of  that  indepen- 
dence which  every  generous  mind  pants  after; 
but  I  fear  she  is  "no  Duchess  at  the  heart." 
Obscure  as  I  am  (comparatively)  I  enjoy  all  the 
necessaries  of  life  as  fully  as  I  desire,  and  wish 
for  wealth  only  to  procure  "the  luxury  of  doing 
good." 

My  chief  design  in  writing  to  you  to-day  was 
to  beg  you  would  not  write  me  often,  lest  the  ex- 
ertion should  hurt  you.  Meantime,  if  my  scrawls 
can  amuse  you  in  your  confinement,  you  shall 
have  them  occasionally.  I  shall  hear  of  you 
every  day  from  my  beloved  Miss  Nimmo.  Do 
you  know,  the  very  first  time  I  was  in  her  house, 
most  of  our  conversation  was  about  a  certain 
(lame)  poet?  I  read  her  soul  in  her  expressive 
countenance,  and  have  been  attached  to  her  ever 
since.  Adieu!  Be  patient.  Take  care  of  your- 
self. My  best  wishes  attend  you.  A.  M. 

—25— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


ROBERT  BURNS  TO  MRS.  M'LEHOSE 

Thursday,  Dec.  20, 1787. 

Your  last,  my  dear  Madam,  had  the  effect  on 
me,  that  Job's  situation  had  on  his  friends,  when 
"they  sat  down  seven  days  and  seven  nights  as- 
tonished, and  spake  not  a  word."  "Pay  my  ad- 
dresses to  a  married  woman  I"  I  started  as  if  I 
had  seen  the  ghost  of  him  I  had  injured.  I  recol- 
lected my  expressions ;  some  of  them  indeed  were, 
in  the  law  phrase,  "habit  and  repute,"  which  is 
being  half  guilty.  I  cannot  possibly  say, 
Madam,  whether  my  heart  might  not  have  gone 
astray  a  little ;  but  I  can  declare,  upon  the  honour 
of  a  poet,  that  the  vagrant  has  wandered  un- 
known to  me.  I  have  a  pretty  handsome  troop 
of  follies  of  my  own;  and,  like  some  other  peo- 
ple's, they  are  but  undisciplined  blackguards :  but 
the  luckless  rascals  have  something  like  honour  in 
them ;  they  would  not  do  a  dishonest  thing. 

To  meet  with  an  unfortunate  woman,  amiable 
and  young,  deserted  and  widowed  by  those  who 
were  bound  by  every  tie  of  duty,  nature,  and 
gratitude,  to  protect,  comfort,  and  cherish  her; 
add  to  all,  when  she  is  perhaps  one  of  the  first  of 
lovely  forms  and  noble  minds — the  mind,  too, 
that  hits  one's  taste  as  the  joys  of  Heaven  do  a 

—26— 


SYLVANDEB,  ANH  CLARINDA 


saint — should  a  vague  idea,  the  natural  child  of 
imagination,  thoughtlessly  peep  over  the  fence — 
were  you,  my  friend,  to  sit  in  judgment,  and  the 
poor,  airy  straggler  brought  before  you,  trem- 
bling, self -condemned,  with  artless  eyes,  brimful 
of  contrition,  looking  wistfully  on  its  judge — you 
would  not,  my  dear  Madam,  condemn  the  hapless 
wretch  to  death  "without  benefit  of  clergy"? 

I  won't  tell  you  what  reply  my  heart  made  to 
your  raillery  of  "seven  years,"  but  I  will  give  you 
what  a  brother  of  my  trade  says  on  the  same  allu- 
sion:— 

"The  patriarch  to  gain  a  wife 

Chaste,  beautiful  and  young, 
Serv'd  fourteen  years  a  painful  life 
And  never  thought  it  long. 

O  were  you  to  reward  such  cares, 
And  life  so  long  would  stay; 

Not  fourteen  but  four  hundred  years 
Would  seem  but  as  one  day!"  * 

I  have  written  you  this  scrawl  because  I  have 
nothing  else  to  do,  and  you  may  sit  down  and 
find  fault  with  it,  if  you  have  no  better  way  of 
consuming  your  time ;  but  finding  fault  with  the 

*Tom  d'Urfey. 

—27— 


SYLVANDEE   AND   CLAKINDA 


vagaries  of  a  poet's  fancy  is  much  such  another 
business  as  Xerxes  chastising  the  waves  of 
Hellespont. 

My  limb  now  allows  me  to  sit  in  some  peace; 
to  walk  I  have  yet  no  prospect  of,  as  I  can't  mark 
it  to  the  ground. 

I  have  just  now  looked  over  what  I  have  writ- 
ten, and  it  is  such  a  chaos  of  nonsense  that  I  dare 
say  you  will  throw  it  into  the  fire,  and  call  me  an 
idle,  stupid  fellow;  but  whatever  you  may  think 
of  my  brains,  believe  me  to  be,  with  the  most 
sacred  respect  and  heartfelt  esteem,  My  dear 
Madam,  your  humble  servant, 

ROBT.  BURNS. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  ROBERT  BURNS 

On  Burns  Saying  He  "Had  Nothing  Else  To 

Do." 

When  first  you  saw  Clarindas  charms 
What  rapture  in  your  bosom  grew! 

Her  heart  was  shut  to  Love's  alarms, 
But  then — you'd  nothing  else  to  do. 

Apollo  oft  had  lent  his  harp, 

But  now  'twas  strung  from  Cupid's  bow; 
You  sung — it  reach'd  Clarindas  heart — 

She  wish'd  you'd  nothing  else  to  do. 

Fair  Venus  smiled,  Minerva  frowned, 
Cupid  observ'd — the  arrow  flew; 

Indifference,  ere  a  week  went  round, 
Show'd  you  had  nothing  else  to  do. 

CLARINDA. 

Christmas  Eve,  1787. 


—29— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Dec.  28,  1787. 

When  dear  Clarinda,  matchless  fair, 

First  struck  Sylvander's  raptured  view, 

He  gaz'd,  he  listened  to  despair, 
Alas !  'twas  all  he  dared  to  do. 

Love,  from  Clarinda's  heavenly  eyes, 
Transfixed  his  bosom  thro'  and  thro'; 

But  still  in  Friendship's  guarded  guise, 
For  more  the  demon  feared  to  do. 

That  heart,  already  more  than  lost, 
The  imp  beleaguer'd  all  perdue; 

For  frowning  Honour  kept  his  post — 
To  meet  that  frown  he  shrunk  to  do. 

His  pangs  the  bard  refused  to  own, 
Tho'  half  he  wish'd  Clarinda  knew; 

But  Anguish  wrung  the  unweeting  groan — 
Who  blames  what  frantic  Pain  must  do? 

That  heart,  where  motley  follies  blend, 
Was  sternly  still  to  Honour  true: 

To  prove  Clarinda's  fondest  friend, 
Was  what  a  lover  sure  might  do, 

—30— 


SYLVANDEE  AND   CLARINDA 


The  Muse  his  ready  quill  employed, 
No  nearer  bliss  he  could  pursue: 

That  bliss  Clarinda  cold  deny'd — 
"Send  word  by  Charles  how  you  do!" 

The  chill  behest  disarm'd  his  muse, 
Till  passion,  all  impatient  grew: 

He  wrote,  and  hinted  for  excuse, 

'Twas  'cause  "he'd  nothing  else  to  do." 

But  by  those  hopes  I  have  above ! 

And  by  those  faults  I  dearly  rue ! 
The  deed,  the  boldest  mark  of  love, 

For  thee,  that  deed  I  dare  to  do! 

O  could  the  Fates  but  name  the  price 

Would  bless  me  with  your  charms  and  you! 

With  frantic  joy  I'd  pay  it  thrice, 
If  human  art  and  power  could  do ! 

Then  take,  Clarinda,  friendship's  hand, 
(Friendship,  at  least,  I  may  avow;) 

And  lay  no  more  your  chill  command, 
I'll  write,  whatever  I've  to  do. 

SYLVANDER. 


—31- 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA     \ 

I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  Clarinda,  for  the 
fragment  scrawl  I  sent  you  yesterday.  I  really 
don't  know  what  I  wrote.  A  gentleman,  for 
whose  character,  abilities,  and  critical  knowledge, 
I  have  the  highest  veneration,  called  in  just  as  I 
had  begun  the  second  sentence,  and  I  would  not 
make  the  porter  wait.  I  read  to  my  much-re- 
spected friend  several  of  my  own  bagatelles,  and 
among  others,  your  lines,  which  I  had  copied  out. 
He  began  some  criticism  on  them  as  on  the  other 
pieces,  when  I  informed  him  they  were  the  work 
of  a  young  lady  in  this  town;  which,  I  assure  you, 
made  him  stare.  My  learned  friend  seriously 
protested,  that  he  did  not  believe  any  young  wo- 
man in  Edinburgh  was  capable  of  such  lines ;  and, 
if  you  know  anything  of  Professor  Gregory,  you 
will  neither  doubt  of  his  abilities  nor  his  sincerity. 
I  do  love  you,  if  possible,  still  better  for  having 
so  fine  a  taste  and  turn  for  poesy.  I  have  again 
gone  wrong  in  my  usual  unguarded  way,  but  you 
may  erase  the  word,  and  put  esteem,  respect,  or 
any  other  tame  Dutch  expression  you  please,  in 
its  place.  I  believe  there  is  no  holding  converse, 
or  carrying  on  correspondence,  with  an  amiable 
woman,  much  less  a  gloriously  amiable  fine  wo- 

—32— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


man.,  without  some  mixture  of  the  delicious  pas- 
sion, whose  most  devoted  slave  I  have  more  than 
once  had  the  honour  of  being — But  why  be  hurt 
or  offended  on  that  account?  Can  no  honest  man 
have  a  prepossession  for  a  fine  woman,  but  he 
must  run  his  head  against  an  intrigue?  Take  a 
little  of  the  tender  witchcraft  of  love,  and  add  to 
it  the  generous,  the  honourable  sentiments  of 
manly  friendship;  and  I  know  but  one  more  de- 
lightful morsel,  which  few,  few  in  any  rank  ever 
taste.  Such  a  composition  is  like  adding  cream 
to  strawberries ;  it  not  only  gives  the  fruit  a  more 
elegant  richness,  but  has  a  peculiar  deliciousness 
of  its  own. 

I  enclose  you  a  few  lines  I  composed  on  a  late 
melancholy  occasion.  *  I  will  not  give  above  five 
or  six  copies  of  it  at  all;  and  I  would  be  hurt  if 
any  friend  should  give  any  copies  without  my 
consent. 

You  cannot  imagine,  Clarinda  (I  like  the  idea 
of  Arcadian  names  in  a  commerce  of  this  kind), 
how  much  store  I  have  set  by  the  hopes  of  your 
future  friendship.  I  don't  know  if  you  have  a 
just  idea  of  my  character,  but  I  wish  you  to  see 
me  as  I  am.  I  am,  as  most  people  of  my  trade 
are,  a  strange  Will-o'-wisp  being;  the  victim,  too 

*  The  lines  "On  the  death  of  Lord  President  Dundas." 

—33— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


frequently,  of  much  imprudence  and  many  fol- 
lies. My  great  constituent  elements  are  pride 
and  passion:  the  first  I  have  endeavoured  to  hu- 
manise into  integrity  and  honour ;  the  last  makes 
me  a  devotee,  to  the  warmest  degree  of  enthusi- 
asm, in  love,  religion,  or  friendship — either  of 
them  or  all  together,  as  I  happen  to  be  inspired. 
'Tis  true  I  never  saw  you  but  once ;  but  how  much 
acquaintance  did  I  form  with  you  in  that  oncel 
Do  not  think  I  flatter  you,  or  have  a  design  upon 
you,  Clarinda:  I  have  too  much  pride  for  the  one, 
and  too  little  cold  contrivance  for  the  other;  but 
of  all  God's  creatures  I  ever  could  approach  in 
the  beaten  way  of  acquaintance,  you  struck  me 
with  the  deepest,  the  strongest,  the  most  perma- 
ment  impression.  I  say  the  most  permanent, 
because  I  know  myself  well,  and  how  far  I  can 
promise  either  on  my  prepossessions  or  my  pow- 
ers. Why  are  you  unhappy?  And  why  are  so 
many  of  our  fellow-creatures,  unworthy  to  be- 
long to  the  same  species  with  you,  blest  with  all 
they  can  wish?  You  have  a  hand  all  benevolent 
to  give ;  why  were  you  denied  the  pleasure  ?  You 
have  a  heart  formed,  gloriously  formed  for  all 
the  most  refined  luxuries  of  love;  why  was  that 
heart  ever  wrung?  O  Clarinda!  Shall  we  not 
meet  in  a  state,  some  yet  unknown  state  of  being, 
—34— 


SYLYANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


where  the  lavish  hand  of  Plenty  shall  minister  to 
the  highest  wish  of  Benevolence;  and  where  the 
chill  north  wind  of  Prudence  shall  never  blow 
over  the  flowery  fields  of  Enjoyment?  If  we  do 
not,  man  was  made  in  vain !  I  deserved  some  of 
the  most  unhappy  hours  that  have  lingered  over 
my  head ;  they  were  the  wages  of  my  labour ;  but 
what  unprovoked  demon,  malignant  as  hell,  stole 
upon  the  confidence  of  unmistrusting  busy  fate, 
and  dashed  your  cup  with  undeserved  sorrow? 

Let  me  know  how  long  your  stay  will  be  out  of 
town:  I  shall  count  the  hours  till  you  inform  me 
of  your  return.  Cursed  etiquette  forbids  your 
seeing  me  just  now;  and  so  soon  as  I  can  walk, 
I  must  bid  Edinburgh  adieu.  Lord !  why  was  I 
born  to  see  misery,  which  I  cannot  relieve ;  and  to 
meet  with  friends,  whom  I  can't  enjoy?  I  look 
back  with  the  pang  of  unavailing  avarice  on  my 
loss  in  not  knowing  you  sooner:  all  last  winter, 
these  three  months  past,  what  luxury  of  inter- 
course have  I  not  lost!  Perhaps,  though,  'twas 
better  for  my  peace.  You  see  I  am  either  above, 
or  incapable  of,  dissimulation.  I  believe  it  is 
want  of  that  particular  genius.  I  despise  de- 
sign, because  I  want  either  coolness  or  wisdom  to 
be  capable  of  it.  I  am  interrupted.  Adieu,  my 
dear  Clarinda!  SYLVANDEB. 

Friday  Evening. 

—35— 


SYLVANDEE  AND   CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

• 

Probably  Written  in  Answer  to  His  the  Same 
Evening. 

I  go  to  the  country  early  to-morrow  morning, 
but  will  be  home  by  Tuesday — sooner  than  I  ex- 
pected. I  have  not  time  to  answer  yours  as  it 
deserves;  nor,  had  I  the  age  of  Methusalem, 
could  I  answer  it  in  kind.  I  shall  grow  vain. 
Your  praises  were  enough — but  those  of  a  Dr. 
Gregory  super  added!  Take  care,  many  a  "glo- 
rious woman"  has  been  undone  by  having  her 
head  turned.  "Know  you!"  I  know  you  far 
better  than  you  do  me.  Like  yourself,  I  am  a 
bit  of  an  enthusiast.  In  religion  and  friendship 
quite  a  bigot — perhaps  I  could  be  so  in  love  too ; 
but  everything  dear  to  me  in  heaven  and  earth 
forbids!  This  is  my  fixed  principle;  the  person 
who  would  dare  to  endeavour  at  removing  it  I 
would  hold  as  my  chief  enemy.  Like  you,  I  am 
incapable  of  dissimulation;  nor  am  I,  as  you 
suppose,  unhappy.  Possessed  of  fine  children, 
competence,  fame,  friends  kind  and  attentive— 
what  a  monster  of  ingratitude  should  I  be  in  the 
eyes  of  Heaven  were  I  to  style  myself  unhappy ! 
True,  I  have  met  with  scenes  horrible  to  recol- 

—36— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


lection,  even  at  six  years'  distance ;  but  adversity, 
my  friend,  is  allowed  to  be  the  school  of  Virtue. 
It  oft  confers  that  chastened  softness  which  is 
unknown  among  the  favourites  of  Fortune! 
Even  a  mind  possessed  of  natural  sensibility, 
without  this,  never  feels  that  exquisite  pleasure 
which  nature  has  annexed  to  our  sympathetic 
sorrows.  Religion,  the  only  refuge  of  the  un- 
fortunate, has  been  my  balm  in  every  woe.  Oh! 
could  I  make  her  appear  to  you  as  she  has  done 
to  me!  Instead  of  ridiculing  her  tenets,  you 
would  fall  down  and  worship  her  very  semblance 
wherever  you  found  it! 

I  will  write  you  again  at  more  leisure,  and  no- 
tice other  parts  of  yours.  I  send  you  a  simile 
upon  a  character  I  don't  know  if  you  are  ac- 
quainted with.  I  am  confounded  at  your  admir- 
ing my  lines.  I  shall  begin  to  question  your 
taste — but  Dr.  G.!  When  I  am  low-spirited 
(which  I  am  at  times)  I  shall  think  of  this  as  a 
restorative. 

Now  for  the  simile : — 

The  morning  sun  shines  glorious  and  bright, 
And  fills  the  heart  with  wonder  and  delight ! 
He  dazzles,  in  meridian  splendour  seen, 
Without  a  blackening  cloud  to  intervene. 

—37— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


So,  at  a  distance  view'd,  your  genius  bright, 
Your  wit,  your  flowing  numbers  can  delight, 
But  ah!  when  error's  dark'ning  clouds  arise, 
When  passion  thunders,  folly's  lightning  flies, 
More  safe  we  gaze,  but  admiration  dies: 
And  as  the  tempting  brightness  snares  the  moth, 
Sure  ruin  marks  too  near  approach  to  both. 

Good  night;  for  Clarinda's  "heavenly  eyes" 
need  the  earthly  aid  of  sleep.  Adieu. 

CLARINDA. 

P.  S. — I  entreat  you  not  to  mention  our  cor- 
respondence to  one  on  earth.  Though  I've  con- 
scious innocence,  my  situation  is  a  delicate  one. 


—38— 


SYLVANDEB   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

January  1, 1788. 

Many  happy  returns  of  this  day  to  you,  my 
dear,  pleasant  friend!  May  each  revolving  year 
find  you  wiser  and  happier !  I  embrace  the  first 
spare  hour  to  fulfil  my  promise;  and  begin  with 
thanking  you  for  the  enclosed  lines — they  are 
very  pretty:  I  like  the  idea  of  personifying  the 
vices  rising  in  the  absence  of  Justice.  It  is  a 
constant  source  of  refined  pleasure,  giving  "to 
airy  nothings  a  local  habitation  and  a  name," 
which  people  of  a  luxuriant  imagination  only 
can  enjoy.  Yet,  to  a  mind  of  a  benevolent  turn, 
it  is  delightful  to  observe  how  equal  the  distribu- 
tion of  happiness  is  among  all  ranks !  If  stupid 
people  are  rendered  incapable  of  tasting  the 
refined  pleasures  of  the  intelligent  and  feeling 
mind,  they  are  likewise  exempted  from  the  thou- 
sand distractions  and  disquietudes  peculiar  to 
sensibility. 

I  have  been  staying  with  a  dear  female  friend* 
who  has  long  been  an  admirer  of  yours,  and  was 
once  on  the  point  of  meeting  with  you  in  the 
house  of  a  Mrs.  Bruce.  She  would  have  been  a 
much  better  "Clarinda."  She  is  comely  without 

*  Mary  Peacock. 

—39— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


being  beautiful,  and  has  a  large  share  of  sense, 
taste  and  sensibility ;  added  to  all,  a  violent  pen- 
chant for  poetry.  If  ever  I  have  an  opportunity, 
I  shall  make  you  and  her  acquainted.  No  won- 
der Dr.  Gregory  criticised  my  lines.  I  saw  sev- 
eral defects  in  them  myself ;  but  had  neither  time 
nor  patience  (nor  ability,  perhaps)  to  correct 
them.  The  three  last  verses  were  longer  than 
the  former;  and  in  the  conclusion,  I  saw  a  vile 
tautology  which  I  could  not  get  rid  of.  But  you 
will  not  wonder  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  not 
only  ignorant  of  every  language  except  my  own, 
but  never  so  much  as  knew  a  syllable  of  the  Eng- 
lish grammar.  If  I  can  write  grammatically,  'tis 
through  mere  habit.  I  rejoice  to  hear  of  Dr. 
Gregory  being  your  particular  friend.  Though 
unacquainted,  I  am  no  stranger  to  his  character: 
where  worth  unites  with  abilities,  it  commands 
our  love  as  well  as  admiration.  Alas!  they  are 
too  seldom  found  in  one  character!  Those  pos- 
sessed of  great  talents  would  do  well  to  remember 
that  all  depends  upon  the  use  made  of  them. 
Shining  abilities  improperly  applied,  only  serve 
to  accelerate  our  destruction  in  both  worlds.  I 
loved  you  for  your  fine  taste  in  poetry  long  be- 
fore I  saw  you;  so  shall  not  trouble  myself  eras- 
ing the  word  applied  in  the  same  way  to  me. 
<— 40— 


SYLVANDEE  AND   CLARINDA 


You  say  "there  is  no  corresponding  with  an 
agreeable  woman  without  a  mixture  of  the  tender 
passion."  I  believe  there  is  no  friendship  be- 
tween people  of  sentiment  of  different  sexes, 
without  a  little  softness;  but  when  kept  within 
proper  bounds,  it  only  serves  to  give  a  higher 
relish  to  such  intercourse.  Love  and  Friendship 
are  names  in  every  one's  mouth;  but  few,  ex- 
tremely few,  understand  their  meaning.  Love 
(or  affection)  cannot  be  genuine  if  it  hesitate  a 
moment  to  sacrifice  every  selfish  gratification  to 
the  happiness  of  its  object.  On  the  contrary, 
when  I  would  purchase  that  at  the  expense  of 
this,  it  deserves  to  be  styled — not  love,  but  a  name 
too  gross  to  mention.  Therefore,  I  contend  that 
an  honest  man  may  have  a  friendly  prepossession 
for  a  woman,  whose  soul  would  abhor  the  idea 
of  an  intrigue  with  her.  These  are  my  senti- 
ments on  the  subject;  I  hope  they  correspond 
with  yours. 

'Tis  honest  in  you  to  wish  me  to  see  you  "just 
as  you  are."  I  believe  I  have  a  tolerably  just 
idea  of  your  character.  No  wonder;  for  had  I 
been  a  man,  I  should  have  been  you.  I  am  not 
vain  enough  to  think  myself  equal  in  abilities; 
but  I  am  formed  with  a  liveliness  of  fancy,  and 
a  strength  of  passion  little  inferior.  Situation 

—41— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLAltlNDA 


and  circumstances  have,  however,  had  the  effects 
on  each  of  us  that  might  have  been  expected. 
Misfortune  has  wonderfully  contributed  to  sub- 
due the  keenness  of  my  passions,  while  success 
and  adulation  have  served  to  nourish  and  inflame 
yours.  Both  of  us  are  incapable  of  deceit,  be- 
cause we  want  coolness  and  command  of  our 
feelings.  Art  is  what  I  never  could  attain  to, 
even  in  situations  where  a  little  would  have  been 
prudent.  Now  and  then  I  am  favoured  with  a 
salutary  blast  of  "the  north  wind  of  prudence." 
The  southern  zephyrs  of  kindness  too  often  send 
up  their  sultry  fogs,  and  cloud  the  atmosphere  of 
my  understanding.  I  have  thought  that  Nature 
threw  me  off  in  the  same  mould,  just  after  you. 
We  were  born,  I  believe,  in  one  year.  Madam 
Nature  has  some  merit  by  her  work  that  year. 
Don't  you  think  so?  I  suppose  the  carline  has 
had  a  flying  visit  of  Venus  and  the  Graces ;  and 
Minerva  has  been  jealous  of  her  attention,  and 
has  sent  Apollo  with  his  harp  to  charm  them 
away. 

But  why  do  you  accuse  Fate  for  my  misfor- 
tunes? There  is  a  noble  independence  of  mind 
which  I  admire;  but,  when  not  checked  by  Reli- 
gion, it  is  apt  to  degenerate  into  a  criminal 
arraignment  of  Providence.  No  "malignant 

—42— 


SYLVANDEB,   AND    CLABINDA 


demon,"  as  you  suppose,  was  "permitted  to  dash 
my  cup  of  life  with  sorrow" :  it  was  the  kindness 
of  a  wise  and  tender  Father  who  foresaw  that  I 
needed  chastisement  ere  I  could  be  brought  to 
Himself.  Ah,  my  friend,  Religion  converts  our 
heaviest  misfortunes  into  blessings!  I  feel  it  to 
be  so.  These  passions  naturally  too  violent  for 
my  peace,  have  been  broken  and  moderated  by 
adversity;  and  if  even  that  has  been  unable  to 
conquer  my  vivacity,  what  lengths  might  I  not 
have  gone,  had  I  been  permitted  to  glide  along 
in  the  sunshine  of  prosperity?  I  should  have  for- 
got my  future  destination,  and  fixed  my  happi- 
ness on  the  fleeting  shadows  below!  My  hand 
was  denied  the  bliss  of  giving,  but  Heaven  ac- 
cepts of  the  wish.  My  heart  was  formed  for 
love,  and  I  desire  to  devote  it  to  Him  who  is  the 
source  of  love!  Yes,  we  shall  surely  meet  in  an 
"unknown  state  of  being,"  where  there  will  be 
full  scope  for  every  kind,  heartfelt  affection — 
love  without  alloy  and  without  end.  Your  para- 
graph upon  this  made  the  tears  flow  down  my 
face!  I  will  not  tell  you  the  reflections  which  it 
raised  in  my  mind;  but  I  wished  that  a  heart 
susceptible  of  such  a  sentiment  took  more  pains 
about  its  accomplishment.  I  fancy  you  will  not 
wish  me  to  write  again;  you'll  think  me  too  seri- 

— 43— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


ous  and  grave.  I  know  not  how  I  have  been  led 
to  be  so ;  but  I  make  no  excuse,  because  I  must  be 
allowed  to  write  you  as  I  feel,  or  not  at  all.  You 
say  you  have  "humanised  pride  into  honour  and 
integrity."  'Tis  a  good  endeavour;  and  could  you 
command  your  too  impetuous  passions,  it  would 
be  a  more  glorious  achievement  than  his  who 
conquered  the  world  and  wept  because  he  had 
no  more  worlds  to  subdue.  Forgive  my  freedom 
with  you:  I  never  trouble  myself  with  the  faults 
of  those  I  don't  esteem,  and  only  notice  those 
of  friends,  to  themselves.  I  am  pleased  with 
friends  when  they  tell  me  mine,  and  look  upon 
it  as  a  test  of  real  friendship. 

I  have  your  Poems  in  loan  just  now,  I've  read 
them  many  times,  and  with  new  pleasure.  Some- 
time I  shall  give  you  my  opinion  of  them  sever- 
ally. Let  me  have  a  sight  of  some  more  of  your 
"Bagatelles,"  as  you  style  them.  If  ever  I  write 
any  more,  you  shall  have  them;  and  I'll  thank 
you  to  correct  their  errors.  I  wrote  lines  on 
Bishop  Geddes,  by  way  of  blank  verse ;  but  they 
were  what  Pope  describes,  "Where  ten  low  words 
do  creep  in  one  dull  line."  I  believe  you  (being 
a  genius)  have  inspired  me;  for  I  never  wrote  so 
well  before.  Pray,  is  Dr.  Gregory  pious?  I 
have  heard  so.  I  wish  I  knew  him.  Adieu! 


SYLVANDEE   AND    CLARINDA 


You  have   quantity   enough,   whatever  be  the 
quality.     Good  night,  Believe  me  your  sincere 

friend. 

CLARINDA. 


-45 — 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Thursday,  3d  Jan.,  1788. 

I  got  your  lines :  *  they  are  "in  kind !"  I  can't 
but  laugh  at  my  presumption  in  pretending  to 
send  my  poor  ones  to  you!  but  it  was  to  amuse 
myself.  At  this  season,  when  others  are  joyous, 
I  am  the  reverse.  I  have  no  near  relations;  and 
while  others  are  with  theirs  I  sit  alone,  musing 
upon  several  of  mine  with  whom  I  used  to  be — 
now  gone  to  the  land  of  forgetfulness. 

You  have  put  me  in  a  rhyming  humour.  The 
moment  I  read  yours,  I  wrote  the  following 
lines : — 

Talk  not  of  Love!  it  gives  me  pain, 

For  Love  has  been  my  foe; 
He  bound  me  in  an  iron  chain, 

And  plung'd  me  deep  in  woe! 

But  Friendship's  pure  and  lasting  joys 
My  heart  was  formed  to  prove ; 

The  worthy  object  be  of  those, 
But  never  talk  of  Love. 

The  "Hand  of  Friendship"  I  accept, 

May  Honour  be  our  guard ! 
Virtue  our  intercourse  direct, 

Her  smiles  our  dear  reward. 

*  Here  again  Burns'  verses  are  missing. 

—46— 


SYLVANDEE   AND    CLARINDA 


But  I  wish  to  know  (in  sober  prose)  how  your 
leg  is?  I  would  have  inquired  sooner  had  I 
known  it  would  have  been  acceptable.  Miss  N. 
informs  me  now  and  then;  but  I  have  not  seen 
her  dear  face  for  some  time.  Do  you  think  you 
could  venture  this  length  in  a  coach  without  hurt- 
ing yourself?  I  go  out  of  town  the  beginning  of 
the  week  for  a  few  days.  I  wish  you  could  come 
to-morrow  or  Saturday.  I  long  for  a  conversa- 
tion with  you,  and  lameness  of  body  won't  hin- 
der that.  'Tis  really  curious — so  much  fun  pass- 
ing between  two  persons  who  saw  one  another 
only  once!  Say  if  you  think  you  dare  venture; 
only  let  the  coachman  be  "adorned  with  sobriety." 

Adieu!    Believe  me    (on  my  simple  word) 
your  real  friend  and  well-wisher,. 

A.M. 


-47— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

My  dear  Clarinda, — Your  last  verses  have  so 
delighted  me,  that  I  have  copied  them  in  among 
some  of  my  own  most  valued  pieces,  which  I  keep 
sacred  for  my  own  use.  Do  let  me  have  a  few 
now  and  then. 

Did  you,  Madam,  know  what  I  feel  when  you 
talk  of  your  sorrows ! 

Good  God !  that  one  who  has  so  much  worth  in 
the  sight  of  heaven,  and  is  so  amiable  to  her  fel- 
low-creatures, should  be  so  unhappy!  I  can't 
venture  out  for  cold.  My  limb  is  vastly  better ; 
but  I  have  not  any  use  of  it  without  my  crutches. 
Monday,  for  the  first  time,  I  dine  at  a  neigh- 
bour's, next  door.  As  soon  as  I  can  go  so  far,  even 
in  a  coach,  my  first  visit  shall  be  to  you.  Write 
me  when  you  leave  town,  and  immediately  when 
you  return;  and  I  earnestly  pray  your  stay  may 
be  short.  You  can't  imagine  how  miserable  you 
made  me  when  you  hinted  to  me  not  to  write. 
Farewell. 

SYLVANDER. 


—48— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

You  are  right,  my  dear  Clarinda;  a  friendly 
correspondence  goes  for  nothing,  except  one 
write  their  undisguised  sentiments.  Yours 
please  me  for  their  intrinsic  merit,  as  well  as  be- 
cause they  are  yours,  which,  I  assure  you,  is  to 
me  a  high  recommendation.  Your  religious 
sentiments,  Madam,  I  revere.  If  you  have,  on 
suspicious  evidence  from  some  lying  oracle,  learnt 
that  I  despise  or  ridicule  so  sacredly  important  a 
matter  as  real  religion,  you  have,  my  Clarinda, 
much  misconstrued  your  friend. — "I  am  not  mad, 
most  noble  Festus !"  Have  you  ever  met  a  per- 
fect character?  Do  we  not  sometimes  rather 
exchange  faults  than  get  rid  of  them?  For  in- 
stance, I  am  perhaps  tired  with,  and  shocked  at, 
a  life  too  much  the  prey  of  giddy  inconsistencies 
and  thoughtless  follies ;  by  degrees  I  grow  sober, 
prudent,  and  statedly  pious — I  say  statedly,  be- 
cause the  most  unaffected  devotion  is  not  at  all 
inconsistent  with  my  first  character — I  join  the 
world  in  congratulating  myself  on  the  happy 
change.  But  let  me  pry  more  narrowly  into  this 
affair.  Have  I,  at  bottom,  anything  of  a  secret 
pride  in  these  endowments  and  emendations? 
Have  I  nothing  of  a  presbyterian  sourness,  a 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


hypocritical  severity,  when  I  survey  my  less  reg- 
ular neighbours?  In  a  word,  have  I  missed  all 
those  nameless  and  numberless  modifications  of 
indistinct  selfishness,  which  are  so  near  our  own 
eyes,  that  we  can  scarce  bring  them  within  the 
sphere  of  our  vision,  and  which  the  known  spot- 
less cambric  of  our  character  hides  from  the  ordi- 
nary observer? 

My  definition  of  worth  is  short ;  truth  and  hu- 
manity respecting  our  fellow-creatures;  rever- 
ence and  humility  in  the  presence  of  that  Being, 
my  Creator  and  Preserver,  and  who,  I  have  every 
reason  to  believe,  will  one  day  be  my  Judge.  The 
first  part  of  my  definition  is  the  creature  of  un- 
biased instinct ;  the  last  is  the  child  of  after  reflec- 
tion. Where  I  found  these  two  essentials  I 
would  gently  note  and  slightly  mention  any  at- 
tendant flaws — flaws,  the  marks,  the  conse- 
quences of  human  nature. 

I  can  easily  enter  into  the  sublime  pleasures 
that  your  strong  imagination  and  keen  sensibility 
must  derive  from  religion,  particularly  if  a  little 
in  the  shade  of  misfortune ;  but  I  own  I  cannot, 
without  a  marked  grudge,  see  heaven  totally  en- 
gross so  amiable,  so  charming  a  woman  as  my 
friend  Clarinda ;  and  should  be  very  well  pleased 

—50— 


SYLVANDEE  AND   CLARINDA 


at  a  circumstance  that  would  put  it  in  the  power 
of  somebody  (happy  somebody!)  to  divide  her 
attention,  with  all  the  delicacy  and  tenderness  of 
an  earthly  attachment. 

You  will  not  easily  persuade  me  that  you  have 
not  a  grammatical  knowledge  of  the  English  lan- 
guage— so  far  from  being  inaccurate,  you  are  ele- 
gant beyond  any  woman  of  my  acquaintance,  ex- 
cept one,  whom  I  wish  you  knew. 

Your  last  verses  to  me  have  so  delighted  me, 
that  I  have  got  an  excellent  old  Scots  air  that 
suits  the  measure,  and  you  shall  see  them  in  print 
in  the  "Scots  Musical  Museum,"  a  work  publish- 
ing by  a  friend  of  mine  in  this  town.  I  want 
four  stanzas;  you  gave  me  but  three,  and  one  of 
them  alluded  to  an  expression  in  my  former  let- 
ter; so  I  have  taken  your  two  first  verses,  with 
a  slight  alteration  in  the  second,  and  have  added 
a  third ;  but  you  must  help  me  to  a  fourth.  Here 
they  are :  the  latter  half  of  the  first  stanza  would 
have  been  worthy  of  Sappho;  I  am  in  raptures 
with  it. 

"Talk  not  of  Love,  it  gives  me  pain, 

For  Love  has  been  my  foe; 
He  bound  me  with  an  iron  chain 
And  sunk  me  deep  in  woe. 

—51— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


But  Friendship's  pure  and  lasting  joys 

My  heart  was  f orm'd  to  prove : 
There,  welcome,  win  and  wear  the  prize, 

But  never  talk  of  Love. 

Your  friendship  much  can  make  me  blest, 

O,  why  that  bliss  destroy? 
Why  urge  the  odious  (or  only)  one  request 

You  know  I  must  (or  will)  deny?" 

The  alteration  in  the  second  stanza  is  no  im- 
provement, but  there  was  a  slight  inaccuracy  in 
your  rhyme.  The  third  I  only  offer  to  your 
choice,  and  have  left  two  words  for  your  deter- 
mination. The  air  is  "The  Banks  of  Spey,"  and 
is  most  beautiful. 

To-morrow  evening  I  intend  taking  a  chair, 
and  paying  a  visit  at  Park  Place,  to  a  much- 
valued  old  friend.  If  I  could  be  sure  of  finding 
you  at  home  (and  I  will  send  one  of  the  chair- 
men to  call),  I  would  spend  from  five  to  six 
o'clock  with  you  as  I  go  past.  I  cannot  do  more 
this  time,  as  I  have  something  on  my  hand  that 
hurries  me  much.  I  propose  giving  you  the  first 
call,  my  old  friend  the  second,  and  Miss  Nimmo 
as  I  return  home.  Do  not  break  any  engage- 
ment for  me,  as  I  will  spend  another  evening  with 
you,  at  any  rate,  before  I  leave  town. 


SYLVANDEB,   AND    CLARINDA 


Do  not  tell  me  that  you  are  pleased  when  your 
friends  inform  you  of  your  faults.  I  am  igno- 
rant what  they  are;  but  I  am  sure  they  must  be 
such  evanescent  trifles  compared  with  your  per- 
sonal and  mental  accomplishments,  that  I  would 
despise  the  ungenerous,  narrow  soul  who  would 
notice  any  shadow  of  imperfections  you  may 
seem  to  have,  any  other  way  than  in  the  most 
delicate  agreeable  raillery.  Coarse  minds  are 
not  aware  how  much  they  injure  the  keenly  feel- 
ing tie  of  bosom-friendship,  when,  in  their  foolish 
officiousness,  they  mention  what  nobody  cares 
for  recollecting.  People  of  nice  sensibility  and 
generous  minds  have  a  certain  intrinsic  dignity 
that  fires  at  being  trifled  with,  or  lowered,  or  even 
too  nearly  approached. 

You  need  make  no  apology  for  long  letters :  I 
am  even  with  you.  Many  happy  New  Years  to 
you,  charming  Clarinda!  I  can't  dissemble, 
were  it  to  shun  perdition.  He  who  sees  you  as 
I  have  done,  and  does  not  love  you,  deserves  to 
be  damn'd  for  his  stupidity !  He  who  loves  you, 
and  would  injure  you,  deserves  to  be  doubly 
damn'd  for  his  villainy !  Adieu. 

SYLVANDEB. 

P.  S. — What  would  you  think  of  this  for  a 
fourth  stanza? 

—53— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


The  lines  that  followed  were  torn  from  the 
original  MS.  but  from  the  published  volume  we 
know  them  to  be: 

Your  thought,  if  love  must  harbour  there, 

Conceal  it  in  that  thought, 
Nor  cause  me  from  my  bosom  tear 
The  very  friend  I  sought. 


—54— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Some  days,  some  nights,  nay,  some  hours,  like 
the  "ten  righteous  persons  in  Sodom,"  save  the 
rest  of  the  vapid,  tiresome,  miserable  months  and 
years  of  life.  One  of  these  hours  my  dear  Clar- 
inda  blest  me  with  yesternight. 

" — One  well-spent  hour 
In  such  a  tender  circumstance  for  friends, 
Is  better  than  an  age  of  common  time." 

— Thomson. 

My  favourite  feature  in  Milton's  Satan  is  his 
manly  fortitude  in  supporting  what  cannot  be 
remedied ;  in  short,  the  wild  broken  fragments  of 
a  noble  exalted  mind  in  ruins.  I  meant  no  more 
by  saying  he  was  a  favourite  hero  of  mine. 

I  mentioned  to  you  my  letter  to  Dr.  Moore, 
giving  an  account  of  my  life:  it  is  truth,  every 
word  of  it,  and  will  give  you  the  just  idea  of  a 
man  whom  you  have  honoured  with  your  friend- 
ship. I  am  afraid  you  will  hardly  be  able  to 
make  sense  of  so  torn  a  piece.  Your  verses  I 
shall  muse  on  deliciously,  as  I  gaze  on  your  im- 
age in  my  mind's  eye,  in  my  heart's  core:  they 
will  be  in  time  enough  for  a  week  to  come.  I  am 

—55— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


truly  happy  your  headache  is  better.  Oh,  how 
can  Pain  or  Evil  be  so  daringly,  unfeelingly, 
cruelly  savage  as  to  wound  so  noble  a  mind,  so 
lovely  a  form ! 

My  little  fellow  *  is  all  my  namesake.  Write 
me  soon.  My  every,  strongest  good  wish  attend 
you,  Clarinda! 

SYLVANDEE. 

Saturday,  Noon. 

I  know  not  what  I  have  written.  I  am  pes- 
tered with  people  around  me. 

*  Robert  Burns,  Jr.,  Jean  Armour's  son. 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

I  cannot  delay  thanking  you  for  the  packet  of 
Saturday ;  *  twice  have  I  read  it  with  close  atten- 
tion. Some  parts  of  it  did  beguile  me  of  my 
tears.  With  Desdemona,  I  felt  "  'twas  pitiful, 
'twas  wondrous  pitiful."  When  I  reached  the 
paragraph  where  Lord  Glencairn  is  mentioned, 
I  burst  out  into  tears.  'Twas  that  delightful 
swell  of  the  heart  which  arises  from  the  combina- 
tion of  the  most  pleasurable  feelings.  Nothing 
is  so  binding  to  a  generous  mind  as  placing  con- 
fidence in  it.  I  have  ever  felt  it  so.  You  seem 
to  have  known  this  feature  in  my  character  intui- 
tively; and  therefore  entrusted  me  with  all  your 
faults  and  follies.  The  description  of  your  first 
love-scene  delighted  me.  It  recalled  the  idea  of 
some  tender  circumstances  which  happened  to 
myself,  at  the  same  period  of  life — only  mine  did 
not  go  so  far.  Perhaps,  in  return,  I'll  tell  you 
the  particulars  when  we  meet.  Ah,  my  friend! 
our  early  love  emotions  are  surely  the  most  ex- 
quisite. In  riper  years  we  may  acquire  more 
knowledge,  sentiment,  &c. ;  but  none  of  these 
can  yield  such  rapture  as  the  dear  delusions  of 
heart-throbbing  youth!  Like  yours,  mine  was 

*  Evidently  the  autobiographical  sketch  to  which  he  has  referred. 

—57— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


a  rural  scene  too,  which  adds  much  to  the  ten- 
der meeting.  But  no  more  of  these  recollec- 
tions. 

One  thing  alone  hurt  me,  though  I  regretted 
many — your  avowal  of  being  an  enemy  to  Cal- 
vinism. I  guessed  it  was  so  by  some  of  your 
pieces ;  but  the  confirmation  of  it  gave  me  a  shock 
I  could  only  have  felt  for  one  I  was  interested  in. 
You  will  not  wonder  at  this  when  I  inform  you 
that  I  am  a  strict  Calvinist,  one  or  two  dark 
tenets  excepted,  which  I  never  meddle  with. 
Like  many  others,  you  are  so,  either  from  never 
having  examined  it  with  candour  and  impartial- 
ity, or  from  having  unfortunately  met  with  weak 
professors,  who  did  not  understand  it ;  and  hypo- 
critical ones,  who  made  it  a  cloak  for  their  knav- 
ery. Both  of  these,  I  am  aware,  abound  in 
country  life;  nor  am  I  surprised  at  their  having 
had  this  effect  upon  your  more  enlightened  un- 
derstanding. I  fear  your  friend,  the  captain  of 
the  ship,  was  of  no  advantage  to  you  in  this  and 
many  other  respects. 

My  dear  Sylvander,  I  flatter  myself  you  have 
some  opinion  of  Clarinda's  understanding.  Her 
belief  in  Calvinism  is  not  (as  you  will  be  apt  to 
suppose)  the  prejudice  of  education.  I  was 
bred  by  my  father  in  the  Arminian  principles. 

—58— 


SYLVANDER    AND    CLABINDA 


My  mother,  who  was  an  angel,  died  when  I  was 
in  my  tenth  year.  She  was  a  Calvinist, — was 
adored  in  her  life, — and  died  triumphing  in  the 
prospect  of  immortality.  I  was  too  young,  at 
that  period,  to  know  the  difference ;  but  her  pious 
precepts  and  example  often  recurred  to  my  mind 
amidst  the  giddiness  and  adulation  of  Miss  in, 
her  teens.  'Twas  since  I  came  to  this  town,  five 
years  ago,  that  I  imbibed  my  present  principles. 
They  were  those  of  a  dear,  valued  friend  in  whose 
judgment  and  integrity  I  had  entire  confidence. 
I  listened  to  him  often,  with  delight  upon  the 
subject.  My  mind  was  docile  and  open  to  con- 
viction. I  resolved  to  investigate,  with  deep 
attention,  that  scheme  of  doctrine  which  had 
such  happy  effects  upon  him.  Conviction  of 
understanding,  and  peace  of  mind,  were  the 
happy  consequences.  Thus  have  I  given  you 
a  true  account  of  my  faith.  I  trust  my  practice 
will  ever  correspond.  Were  I  to  narrate  my 
past  life  as  honestly  as  you  have  done,  you  would 
soon  be  convinced  that  neither  of  us  could  hope 
to  be  justified  by  our  good  works. 

If  you  have  time  and  inclination,  I  should  wish 
to  hear  your  chief  objections  to  Calvinism.  They 
have  been  often  confuted  by  men  of  great  minds 
and  exemplary  lives, — but  perhaps  you  never 

—59— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


inquired  into  these.  Ah,  Sylvander !  Heaven  has 
not  endowed  you  with  such  uncommon  powers  of 
mind  to  employ  them  in  the  manner  you  have 
done.  This  long,  serious  subject  will,  I  know, 
have  one  of  three  effects :  either  to  make  you 
laugh  in  derision — yawn  in  supine  indifference — 
or  set  about  examining  the  hitherto-despised  sub- 
ject. Judge  of  the  interest  Clarinda  takes  in 
you  when  she  affirms,  that  there  are  but  few 
events  could  take  place  that  would  afford  her 
the  heart-felt  pleasure  of  the  latter. 

Read  this  letter  attentively,  and  answer  me  at 
leisure.  Do  not  be  frightened  at  its  gravity, — 
believe  me,  I  can  be  as  lively  as  you  please. 
Though  I  wish  Madam  Minerva  for  my  guide, 
I  shall  not  be  hindered  from  rambling  sometimes 
in  the  fields  of  Fancy.  I  must  tell  you  that  I 
admire  your  narrative,  in  point  of  composition, 
beyond  all  your  other  productions. — One  thing 
I  am  afraid  of ;  there  is  not  a  trace  of  friendship 
toward  a  female:  now,  in  the  case  of  Clarinda, 
this  is  the  only  "consummation  devoutly  to  be 
wished." 

You  told  me  you  had  never  met  with  a  woman 
who  could  love  as  ardently  as  yourself.  I  be- 
lieve it ;  and  would  advise  you  never  to  tie  your- 
self, till  you  meet  with  such  a  one.  Alas !  you'll 

—60— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


find  many  who  canna,  and  some  who  manna ;  but 
to  be  joined  to  one  of  the  former  description 
would  make  you  miserable.  I  think  you  had 
almost  better  resolve  against  wedlock :  for  unless 
a  woman  were  qualified  for  the  companion,  the 
friend,  and  the  mistress,  she  would  not  do  for 
you.  The  last  may  gain  Sylvander,  but  the  oth- 
ers alone  can  keep  him.  Sleep,  and  want  of 
room,  prevent  my  explaining  myself  upon  "infi- 
delity in  a  husband,"  which  made  you  stare  at 
me.  This,  and  other  things,  shall  be  matter  for 
another  letter,  if  you  are  not  wishing  this  to  be 
the  last.  If  agreeable  to  you,  I'll  keep  the  narra- 
tive till  we  meet.  Adieu!  *  Charming  Clarinda" 
must  e'en  resign  herself  to  the  arms  of  Morpheus. 

Your  true  friend, 

CLARINDA. 

P.  S. — Don't  detain  the  porter.  Write  when 
convenient. 

I  am  probably  to  be  in  your  square  this  after- 
noon, near  two  o'clock.  If  your  room  be  to  the 
street,  I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  giving  you  a 
nod.  I  have  paid  the  porter,  and  you  may  do 
so  when  you  write.  I'm  sure  they  have  some- 
times made  us  pay  double.  Adieu! 

Tuesday  Morning. 

—61— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  am  delighted,  charming  Clarinda,  with  your 
honest  enthusiasm  for  religion.  Those  of  either 
sex,  but  particularly  the  female,  who  are  luke- 
warm in  that  most  important  of  all  things,  "O  my 
soul,  come  not  thou  into  their  secrets!" 

I  feel  myself  deeply  interested  in  your  good 
opinion,  and  will  lay  before  you  the  outlines  of 
my  belief: — He  who  is  our  Author  and  Pre- 
server, and  will  one  day  be  our  Judge,  must  be, — 
not  for  his  sake,  in  the  way  of  duty,  but  from 
the  native  impulse  of  our  hearts, — the  object  of 
our  reverential  awe  and  grateful  adoration.  He 
is  almighty  and  all-bounteous;  we  are  weak  and 
dependent:  hence  praj^er  and  every  other  sort  of 
devotion.  "He  is  not  willing  that  any  should 
perish,  but  that  all  should  come  to  everlasting 
life":  consequently,  it  must  be  in  every  one's 
power  to  embrace  His  offer  of  "everlasting  life" ; 
otherwise  he  could  not  in  justice  condemn  those 
who  did  not.  A  mind  pervaded,  actuated  and 
governed  by  purity,  truth,  and  charity,  though 
it  does  not  merit  heaven,  yet  is  an  absolutely- 
necessary  prerequisite,  without  which  heaven 
can  neither  be  obtained  nor  enjoyed;  and  by 
Divine  promise,  such  a  mind  shall  never  fail  of 

—62— 


SYLVANDEE   AND    CLAEINDA 


attaining  "everlasting  life":  hence  the  impure, 
the  deceiving  and  the  uncharitable  exclude  them- 
selves from  eternal  bliss  by  their  unfitness  for 
enjoying  it.  The  Supreme  Being  has  put  the 
immediate  administration  of  all  this — for  wise 
and  good  ends  known  to  himself — into  the  hands 
of  Jesus  Christ,  a  great  Personage,  whose  rela- 
tion to  Him  we  cannot  comprehend,  but  whose 
relation  to  us  is  a  Guide  and  Saviour;  and  who, 
except  for  our  own  obstinacy  and  misconduct, 
will  bring  us  all,  through  various  ways  and  by 
various  means,  to  bliss  at  last. 

These  are  my  tenets,  my  lovely  friend;  and 
which,  I  think,  cannot  be  well  disputed.  My 
creed  is  pretty  nearly  expressed  in  that  last  clause 
of  Jamie  Dean's  grace,  an  honest  weaver  in  Ayr- 
shire:— "Lord,  grant  that  we  may  lead  a  gude 
life!  for  a  gude  life  maks  a  gude  end:  at  least  it 
helps  weel." 

I  am  flattered  by  the  entertainment  you  tell 
me  you  have  found  in  my  packet.  You  see  me 
as  I  have  been,  you  know  me  as  I  am,  and  may 
guess  at  what  I  am  likely  to  be.  I  too  may  say, 
"Talk  not  of  Love,"  &c.;  for,  indeed,  he  has 
"plunged  me  deep  in  woe!"  Not  that  I  ever  saw 
a  woman  who  pleased  unexceptionably,  as  my 
Clarinda  elegantly  says,  "in  the  companion,  the 

—63— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


friend,  and  the  mistress."  One  indeed,  I  could 
except;  one,  before  passion  threw  its  mists  over 
my  discernment,  I  knew — the  first  of  women! 
Her  name  is  indelibly  written  in  my  heart's  core ; 
but  I  dare  not  look  on  it, — a  degree  of  agony 
would  be  the  consequence.  Oh,  thou  perfidious, 
cruel,  mischief -making  demon,  who  presidest  o'er 
that  frantic  passion, — thou  mayest,  thou  dost 
poison  my  peace,  but  shalt  not  taint  my  honour! 
I  would  not  for  a  single  moment  give  an  asylum 
to  the  most  distant  imagination  that  would 
shadow  the  faintest  outline  of  a  selfish  gratifica- 
tion at  the  expense  of  her,  whose  happiness  is 
twisted  with  the  threads  of  my  existence.  May 
she  be  happy,  as  she  deserves!  And  if  my  ten- 
derest,  faithfulest  friendship  can  add  to  her  bliss, 
I  shall,  at  least,  have  one  solid  mine  of  enjoy- 
ment in  my  bosom!  Don't  guess  at  these  rav- 
ings! 

I  watched  at  our  front  window  to-day,  but 
was  disappointed.  It  has  been  a  day  of  disap- 
pointments. I  am  just  risen  from  a  two-hours' 
bout  after  supper,  with  silly  or  sordid  souls  who 
could  relish  nothing  in  common  with  me  but  the 
Port.  "One!"  Tis  now  the  "witching  time  of 
night,"  and  whatever  is  out  of  joint  in  the  fore- 
going scrawl,  impute  it  to  enchantments  and 

—64— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


spells;  for  I  can't  look  over  it,  but  will  seal  it 
up  directly,  as  I  don't  care  for  to-morrow's  criti- 
cisms on  it. 

You  are  by  this  time  fast  asleep,  Clarinda; 
may  good  angels  attend  and  guard  you  as  con- 
stantly and  as  faithfully  as  my  good  wishes  do! 

"Beauty  which,  whether  waking  or  asleep, 
Shot  forth  peculiar  graces." 

John  Milton,  I  wish  thy  soul  better  rest  than 
I  expect  on  my  pillow  to-night!  O  for  a  little 
of  the  cart-horse  part  of  human  nature!  Good 
night,  my  dearest  Clarinda! 

SYLVANDER. 

Tuesday  Night. 


—65— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Wednesday,  10  P.M. 

This  moment  your  letter  was  delivered  to  me. 
My  boys  are  asleep.  The  youngest  has  been  for 
some  time  in  a  crazy  state  of  health,  but  has  been 
worse  these  two  days  past.  Partly  this  and  the 
badness  of  the  day  prevented  my  exchanging  a 
heartfelt  Howd'ye?  yesterday.  Friday,  if  noth- 
ing prevents,  I  shall  have  that  pleasure  about  two 
o'clock  or  a  little  before  it. 

I  wonder  how  you  could  write  so  distinctly 
after  two  or  three  hours  over  a  bottle;  but  they 
were  not  congenial  whom  you  sat  with,  and  there- 
fore your  spirits  remained  unexhausted;  and 
when  quit  of  them  you  fled  to  a  friend  who  can 
relish  most  things  in  common  with  you  (except 
Port).  'Tis  dreadful  what  a  variety  of  these 
"silly  sordid  souls"  one  meets  with  in  life !  but  in 
scenes  of  mere  sociability  these  pass.  In  reading 
the  account  you  give  of  your  inveterate  turn  for 
social  pleasure,  I  smiled  at  its  resemblance  to  my 
own.  It  is  so  great,  that  I  often  think  I  had  been 
a  man  but  for  some  mistake  of  Nature.  If  you 
saw  me  in  a  merry  party,  you  would  suppose  me 
only  an  enthusiast  in  fun;  but  I  now  avoid  such 
parties.  My  spirits  are  sunk  for  days  after;  and, 

—66— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


what  is  worse,  there  are  sometimes  dull  or  mali- 
cious souls  who  censure  me  loudly  for  what  their 
sluggish  natures  cannot  comprehend.  Were  I 
possessed  of  an  independent  fortune,  I  would 
scorn  their  pitiful  remarks ;  but  everything  in  my 
situation  renders  prudence  necessary.* 

I  have  slept  little  these  two  nights.  My  child 
was  uneasy,  and  that  kept  me  awake  watching 
him!  Sylvander,  if  I  have  merit  in  anything, 
'tis  in  an  unremitting  attention  to  my  two  chil- 
dren; but  it  cannot  be  denominated  merit,  since 
'tis  as  much  inclination  as  duty.  A  prudent 
woman  (as  the  world  goes)  told  me  she  was  sur- 
prised I  loved  them,  "considering  what  a  father 
they  had."  I  replied  with  acrimony,  I  could  not 
but  love  my  children  in  any  case ;  but  my  having 
given  them  the  misfortune  of  such  a  father,  en- 
dears them  doubly  to  my  heart:  they  are  inno- 
cent-^-they  depend  upon  me — and  I  feel  this  the 
most  tender  of  all  claims.  While  I  live,  my  fond- 
est attentions  shall  be  theirs! 

All  my  life  I  loved  the  unfortunate,  and  ever 
will.  Did  you  ever  read  Fielding's  Amelia?  If 
you  have  not,  I  beg  you  would.  There  are 
scenes  in  it,  tender  domestic  scenes,  which  I  have 

*  Financial  independence  might  have  made  a  great  difference 
with  her.  It  might  even  have  meant  her  divorce,  and  her  marriage 
with  Burns. 

—67— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


read  over  and  over,  with  feelings  too  delightful 
to  describe!  I  meant  a  "Booth,"  such  a  one  infi- 
nitely to  be  preferred  to  a  brutal,  though  per- 
haps constant  husband.  I  can  conceive  a  man 
fond  of  his  wife,  yet,  (Sylvander-like)  hurried 
into  a  momentary  deviation,  while  his  heart 
remained  faithful.  If  he  concealed  it,  it  could 
not  hurt  me;  but  if,  unable  to  bear  the  anguish 
of  self-reproach,  he  unbosomed  it  to  me,  I  would 
not  only  forgive  him,  but  comfort  and  speak 
kindly  and  in  secret  only  weep.  Reconciliation, 
in  such  a  case,  would  be  exquisite  beyond  almost 
anything  I  can  conceive!  Do  you  now  under- 
stand me  on  this  subject?  I  was  uneasy  till  it 
was  explained;  for  all  I  have  said,  I  know  not 
if  I  had  been  an  "Amelia,"  even  with  a  "Booth." 
My  resentments  are  keen,  like  all  my  other  feel- 
ings: I  am  exquisitely  alive  to  kindness  and  to 
unkindness.  The  first  binds  me  forever!  But  I 
have  none  of  the  spaniel  in  my  nature.  The  last 
would  soon  cure  me,  though  I  loved  to  distrac- 
tion. But  all  this  is  not,  perhaps,  interesting  to 
Sylvander.  I  have  seen  nobody  to-day ;  and,  like 
a  true  egotist,  talk  away  to  please  myself.  I 
am  not  in  a  humour  to  answer  your  creed  to- 
night. 

I  have  been  puzzling  my  brain  about  the  fair 

—68— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


one  you  bid  me  "not  guess  at."  I  first  thought  it 
your  Jean ;  but  I  don't  know  if  she  now  possesses 
your  "tenderest,  faithfulest  friendship."  I  can't 
understand  that  bonny  lassie:  her  refusal,  after 
such  proofs  of  love  proves  her  to  be  either  an 
angel  or  a  dolt.  I  beg  pardon;  I  know  not  all 
the  circumstances,  and  am  no  judge  therefore. 
I  love  you  for  your  continued  fondness,  even 
after  enjoyment:  few  of  your  sex  have  souls  in 
such  cases.  But  I  take  this  to  be  the  test  of  true 
love — mere  desire  is  all  the  bulk  of  people  are 
susceptible  of;  and  that  is  soon  satiated.  "Your 
good  wishes."  You  had  mine,  Sylvander,  before 
I  saw  you.  You  will  have  them  while  I  live.. 
With  you,  I  wish  I  had  a  little  of  tlie  "cart-horse" 
in  me.  You  and  I  have  some  horse  properties; 
but  more  of  the  eagle,  and  too  much  of  the  turtle- 
dove !  Goodnight ! 

Your  friend, 

CLARINDA. 

Thursday  Morning. 

This  day  is  so  good  that  I'll  make  out  my  call 
to  your  Square.  I  am  laughing  to  myself  at 
announcing  this  for  the  third  time.  Were  she  who 
"poisons  your  peace"  to  intend  you  a  Pisgah 
view,  she  could  do  no  more  than  I  have  done  on 

—69— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


this  trivial  occasion.  Keep  a  good  heart,  Syl- 
vander;  the  eternity  of  your  love-sufferings  will 
be  ended  before  six  weeks.  Such  perjuries  the 
"Laughing  gods  allow."  But  remember,  there 
is  no  such  toleration  in  friendship,  and 

I  am  yours, 

CLARINDA. 


—70— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  am  certain  I  saw  you,  Clarinda;  but  you 
don't  look  to  the  proper  story  for  a  poet's  lodg- 
ing. 

"Where  Speculation  roosted  near  the  sky." 

I  could  almost  have  thrown  myself  over,  for  very 
vexation.  Why  didn't  you  look  higher?  It  has 
spoilt  my  peace  for  this  day.  To  be  so  near  my 
charming  Clarinda;  to  miss  her  look  while  it  was 
searching  for  me.  I  am  sure  the  soul  is  capable 
of  disease;  for  mine  has  convulsed  itself  into  an 
inflammatory  fever.  I  am  sorry  for  your  little 
boy:  do  let  me  know  to-morrow  how  he  is. 

You  have  converted  me,  Clarinda,  (I  shall 
love  that  name  while  I  live :  there  is  heavenly  mu- 
sic in  it) .  Booth  and  Amelia  I  know  well.  Your 
sentiments  on  that  subject,  as  they  are  on  every 
subject,  are  just  and  noble.  "To  be  feelingly 
alive  to  kindness  and  to  unkindness,"  is  a  charm- 
ing female  character. 

What  I  said  in  my  last  letter,  the  powers  of 
fuddling  sociality  only  know  for  me.  By  yours, 
I  understand  my  good  star  has  been  partly  in 
my  horizon,  when  I  got  wild  in  my  reveries.  Had 
that  evil  planet,  which  has  almost  all  my  life  shed 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


its  baleful  rays  on  my  devoted  head,  been  as  usual 
in  its  zenith,  I  had  certainly  blabbed  something 
that  would  have  pointed  out  to  you  the  dear 
object  of  my  tenderest  friendship,  and,  in  spite  of 
me,  something  more.  Had  *iiat  fatal  informa- 
tion escaped  me,  and  it  was  merely  chance  or 
kind  stars  that  it  did  not,  I  had  been  undone! 
You  would  never  have  written  me,  except,  per- 
haps, once  more!  O,  I  could  curse  circum- 
stances! and  the  coarse  tie  of  human  laws  which 
keeps  fast  what  common  sense  would  loose,  and 
which  bars  that  happiness  itself  cannot  give — 
happiness  which  otherwise  love  and  honour  would 
warrant!  But  hold — I  shall  make  no  more 
"hair-breadth  'scapes." 

My  friendship,  Clarinda,  is  a  life-rent  busi- 
ness. My  likings  are  both  strong  and  eternal. 
I  told  you  I  had  but  one  male  friend :  I  have  but 
two  female.  I  should  have  a  third,  but  she  is 
surrounded  by  the  blandishments  of  flattery  and 
courtship.  Her  I  register  in  my  heart's  core  by 
Peggy  Chalmers :  Miss  Nimmo  can  tell  you  how 
divine  she  is.  She  is  worthy  of  a  place  in  the 
same  bosom  with  my  Clarinda.  That  is  the  high- 
est compliment  I  can  pay  her.  Farewell,  Cla- 
rinda! Remember  SYLVANDER. 

Thursday,  Noon. 

—72— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Thursday  Eve. 

I  could  not  see  you,  Sylvander,  though  I  had 
twice  traversed  the  Square.  I'm  persuaded  you 
saw  me  not  neither.  I  met  the  young  lady  I 
meant  to  call  for  first;  and  returned  to  seek  an- 
other acquaintance,  but  found  her  moved.  All 
the  time,  my  eye  soared  to  poetic  heights,  alias 
garrets,  but  not  a  glimpse  of  you  could  I  obtain! 
You  surely  was  within  the  glass,  at  least.  I  re- 
turned, finding  my  intrinsic  dignity  a  good  deal 
hurt,  as  I  missed  my  friend.  Perhaps  I  shall 
see  you  again  next  week:  say  how  high  you  are. 
Thanks  for  your  inquiry  about  my  child ;  his  com- 
plaints are  of  a  tedious  kind,  and  require  patience 
and  resignation.  Religion  has  taught  me  both. 
By  nature  I  inherit  as  little  of  them  as  a  certain 
harum-scarum  friend  of  mine.  In  what  respects 
has  Clarinda  "converted  you"?  Tell  me.  It 
were  an  arduous  task  indeed. 

Your  "ravings"  last  night,  and  your  ambigu- 
ous remarks  upon  them  I  cannot,  perhaps  ought 
not,  to  comprehend.  I  am  your  friend,  Sylvan- 
der :  take  care  lest  virtue  demand  even  friendship 
as  a  sacrifice.  You  need  not  curse  the  tie  of 
human  laws;  since  what  is  the  happiness  Cla- 

—73— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


rinda  would  derive  from  being  loosed?  At  pres- 
ent, she  enjoys  the  hope  of  having  her  children 
provided  for.  In  the  other  case,  she  is  left,  in- 
deed, at  liberty,  but  half  dependent  on  the  bounty 
of  a  friend, — kind  in  substantiate,  but  having  no 
feelings  of  romance :  *  and  who  are  the  generous, 
the  disinterested,  who  would  risk  the  world's 
"dread  laugh"  to  protect  her  and  her  little  ones? 
Perhaps  a  Sylvander-like  son  of  whim  and  fancy 
might,  in  a  sudden  fit  of  romance :  but  would  not 
ruin  be  the  consequence?  Perhaps  one  of  the 
former  .  .  .  yet  if  he  was  not  dearer  to  her  than 
all  the  world — such  are  still  her  romantic  ideas 
—she  could  not  be  his. 

You  see,  Sylvander,  you  have  no  cause  to 
regret  my  bondage.  The  above  is  a  true  picture. 
Have  I  not  reason  to  rejoice  that  I  have  it  not 
in  my  power  to  dispose  of  myself?  "I  commit 
myself  into  thy  hands,  thou  Supreme  Disposer  of 
all  events!  do  with  me  as  seemeth  to  thee  good." 
Who  is  this  one  male  friend?  I  know  your  third 
female.  Ah,  Sylvander!  many  "that  are  first 
shall  be  last,"  and  vice  versa!  I  am  proud  of 
being  compared  to  Miss  Chalmers :  I  have  heard 
how  amiable  she  is.  She  cannot  be  more  so  than 
Miss  Nimmo:  why  do  ye  not  register  her  also? 

*Her  cousin,  Lord  Craig. 

—74— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


She  is  warmly  your  friend; — surely  you  are  in- 
capable of  ingratitude.  She  has  almost  wept 
to  me  at  mentioning  your  intimacy  with  a  certain 
famous  or  infamous  man  in  town.  Do  you  think 
Clarinda  could  anger  you  just  now?  I  com- 
posed lines  addressed  to  you  some  time  ago,  con- 
taining a  hint  upon  the  occasion.  I  had  not  cour- 
age to  send  them  then:  if  you  say  you'll  not  be 
angry,  I  will  yet. 

I  know  not  how  'tis,  but  I  felt  an  irresistible 
impulse  to  write  you  the  moment  I  read  yours. 
I  have  a  design  in  it.  Part  of  your  interest  in 
me  is  owing  to  mere  novelty.  You'll  be  tired  of 
my  correspondence  ere  you  leave  town,  and  will 
never  fash  to  write  me  from  the  country.  I  for- 
give you  in  a  "state  of  celibacy."  Sylvander,  I 
wish  I  saw  you  happily  married:  you  are  so 
formed,  you  cannot  be  happy  without  a  tender 
attachment.  Heaven  direct  you! 

When  you  see  Bishop  Geddes,  ask  him  if  he 
remembers  a  lady  at  Mrs.  Kemp's,  on  a  Sunday 
night,  who  listened  to  every  word  he  uttered  with 
a  gaze  of  attention.  I  saw  he  observed  me,  and 
returned  that  glance  of  cordial  warmth  which 
assured  me  he  was  pleased  with  my  delicate  flat- 
tery. I  wished  that  night  he  had  been  my  father, 
that  I  might  shelter  me  in  his  bosom. 

—75— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


You  shall  have  this,  as  you  desired,  to-morrow; 
and,  if  possible  none  for  four  or  five  days.  I  say, 
if  possible:  for  I  really  can't  but  write,  as  if  I 
had  nothing  else  to  do.  I  admire  your  Epitaph ; 
but  while  I  read  it,  my  heart  swells  at  the  sad 
idea  of  its  realisation.  Did  you  ever  read  San- 
cho's  Letters?  they  would  hit  your  taste.  My 
next  will  be  on  my  favourite  theme — religion. 

Farewell,  Sylvander!  Be  wise,  be  prudent, 
and  be  happy. 

CLARINDA. 

Let  your  next  be  sent  in  the  morning. 

If  you  were  well,  I  would  ask  you  to  meet  me 
to-morrow,  at  twelve  o'clock.  I  go  down  in  the 
Leith  fly,  with  poor  Willie :  what  a  pleasant  chat 
we  might  have!  But  I  fancy  'tis  impossible. 
Adieu ! 

Friday,  One  o'clock. 


—76— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Saturday  Morning. 

Your  thoughts  on  religion,  Clarinda,  shall  be 
welcome.  You  may  perhaps  distrust  me  when 
I  say  'tis  also  my  favourite  topic ;  but  mine  is  the 
religion  of  the  bosom.  I  hate  the  very  idea  of 
controversial  divinity;  as  I  firmly  believe  that 
every  honest,  upright  man,  of  whatever  sect,  will 
be  accepted  of  the  Deity.  If  your  verses,  as  you 
seem  to  hint,  contain  censure,  except  you  want 
an  occasion  to  break  with  me,  don't  send  them. 
I  have  a  little  infirmity  in  my  disposition,  that 
where  I  fondly  love  or  highly  esteem  I  cannot 
bear  reproach. 

"Reverence  thyself,"  is  a  sacred  maxim;  and 
I  wish  to  cherish  it.  I  think  I  told  you  Lord 
Bolingbroke's  saying  to  Swift, — "Adieu,  dear 
Swift!  with  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  entirely: 
make  an  effort  to  love  me  with  all  mine."  A 
glorious  sentiment,  and  without  which  there  can 
be  no  friendship!  I  do  highly,  very  highly,  es- 
teem you  indeed,  Clarinda:  you  merit  it  all! 
Perhaps,  too — I  scorn  dissimulation — I  could 
fondly  love  you:  judge,  then,  what  a  maddening 
sting  your  reproach  would  be.  "Oh,  I  have  sins 
to  heaven,  but  none  to  you."  With  what  pleas- 

—77— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


ure  would  I  meet  you  to-day,  but  I  cannot  walk 
to  meet  the  Fly.  I  hope  to  be  able  to  see  you,  on 
foot,  about  the  middle  of  next  week.  I  am  inter- 
rupted— perhaps  you  are  not  sorry  for  it.  You 
will  tell  me:  but  I  won't  anticipate  blame.  O, 
Clarinda!  did  you  know  how  dear  to  me  is  your 
look  of  kindness,  your  smile  of  approbation,  you 
would  not,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  risk  a  cen- 
sorious remark. 

"Curst  be  the  verse,  how  well  soe'er  it  flow, 
That  tends  to  make  one  worthy  man  my  foe." 

SYLVANDER. 


—78— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

You  talk  of  weeping,  Clarinda :  *  some  invol- 
untary drops  wet  your  lines  as  I  read  them. 
Offend  me,  my  dearest  angel!  You  cannot  of- 
fend me, — you  never  offended  me.  If  you  had 
ever  given  me  the  least  shadow  of  offence,  so 
pardon  me  my  God  as  I  forgive  Clarinda.  I 
have  read  yours  again;  it  has  blotted  my  paper. 
Though  I  find  your  letter  has  agitated  me  into 
a  violent  headache,  I  shall  take  a  chair  and  be 
with  you  about  eight.  A  friend  is  to  be  with  us 
at  tea,  on  my  account,  which  hinders  me  from 
coming  sooner.  Forgive,  dearest  Clarinda,  my 
unguarded  expressions!  For  Heaven's  sake, 
forgive  me,  or  I  shall  never  be  able  to  bear  my 
own  mind. 

Your  unhappy 

SYLVANDER. 


*  Clarinda's  missing  letter  must  have  been  in  her  most  pathetic 
vein.  Evidently  she  was  afraid  of  having  been  a  shade  too  didactic 
for  his  patience,  and,  whatever  she  may  have  wished,  it  surely  was 
not  to  lose  him. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLAKINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Sunday  Evening. 

I  will  not  deny  it,  Sylvander,  last  night  was  one 
of  the  most  exquisite  I  ever  experienced.  Few 
such  fall  to  the  lot  of  mortals !  Few,  extremely 
few,  are  formed  to  relish  such  refined  enjoyment. 
That  it  should  be  so,  vindicates  the  wisdom  of 
Heaven.  But,  though  our  enjoyment  did  not 
lead  beyond  the  limits  of  virtue,  yet  to-day's  re- 
flections have  not  been  altogether  unmixed  with 
regret.  The  idea  of  the  pain  it  would  have  given, 
were  it  known  to  a  friend  to  whom  I  am  bound 
by  the  sacred  ties  of  gratitude,  (no  more,)  the 
opinion  Sylvander  may  have  formed  from  my 
unreservedness ;  and,  above  all,  some  secret  mis- 
givings that  Heaven  may  not  approve,  situated 
as  I  am — these  procured  me  a  sleepless  night; 
and,  though  at  church,  I  am  not  at  all  well. 

Sylvander,  you  saw  Clarinda  last  night,  behind 
the  scenes!  Now,  you'll  be  convinced  she  has 
faults.  If  she  knows  herself,  her  intention  is 
always  good;  but  she  is  too  often  the  victim  of 
sensibility,  and,  hence,  is  seldom  pleased  with 
herself.  A  rencontre  to-day  I  will  relate  to  you, 
because  it  will  show  you  I  have  my  own  share  of 
pride.  I  met  with  a  sister  of  Lord  Napier,  at 

—80— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


the  house  of  a  friend  with  whom  I  sat  between 
sermons:  I  knew  who  she  was,  but  paid  her  no 
other  marks  of  respect  than  I  do  to  any  gentle- 
woman. She  eyed  me  with  minute,  supercilious 
attention,  never  looking  at  me,  when  I  spoke, 
but  even  half  interrupted  me,  before  I  had  done 
addressing  the  lady  of  the  house.  I  felt  my  face 
glow  with  resentment,  and  consoled  myself  with 
the  idea  of  being  her  superior  in  every  respect 
but  the  accidental,  trifling  one  of  birth!  I  was 
disgusted  at  the  fawning  deference  the  lady 
showed  her;  and  when  she  told  me  at  the  door 
that  it  was  my  Lord  Napier's  sister,  I  replied, 
"Is  it,  indeed?  by  her  ill  breeding  I  should  have 
taken  her  for  the  daughter  of  some  upstart 
tradesman !" 

Sylvander,  my  sentiments  as  to  birth  and  for- 
tune are  truly  unfashionable:  I  despise  the  per- 
sons who  pique  themselves  on  either, — the  for- 
mer especially.  Something  may  be  allowed  to 
bright  talents  or  even  external  beauty — these  be- 
long to  us  essentially ;  but  birth  in  no  respect  can 
confer  merit,  because  it  is  not  our  own.  A  per- 
son of  a  vulgar  uncultivated  mind  I  would  not 
take  to  my  bosom,  in  any  station;  but  one  pos- 
sessed of  natural  genius,  improved  by  education 
and  diligence,  such  an  one  I'd  take  for  my  friend, 

—81— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CIwVRINDA 


be  her  extraction  ever  so  mean.  These,  alone, 
constitute  any  real  distinction  between  man  and 
man.  Are  we  not  all  the  offspring  of  Adam? 
have  we  not  one  God?  one  Saviour?  one  Immor- 
tality? I  have  found  but  one  among  all  my 
acquaintance  who  agreed  with  me — my  Mary, 
whom  I  mentioned  to  you.  I  am  to  spend  to- 
morrow with  her,  if  I  am  better.  I  like  her  the 
more  that  she  likes  you. 

I  intended  to  resume  a  little  upon  your  favour- 
ite topic,  the  "Religion  of  the  Bosom."  Did  you 
ever  imagine  that  I  meant  any  other?  Poor 
were  that  religion  and  unprofitable  whose  seat 
was  merely  in  the  brain.  In  most  points  we  seem 
to  agree:  only  I  found  all  my  hopes  of  pardon 
and  acceptance  with  Heaven  upon  the  merit  of 
Christ's  atonement, — whereas  you  do  upon  a 
good  life.  You  think  "it  helps  weel,  at  least." 
If  anything  we  could  do  had  been  able  to  atone 
for  the  violation  of  God's  Law,  where  was  the 
need  (I  speak  it  with  reverence)  of  such  an  aston- 
ishing Sacrifice?  Job  was  an  "upright  man." 
In  the  dark  season  of  adversity,  when  other  sins 
were  brought  to  his  remembrance,  he  boasted  of 
his  integrity ;  but  no  sooner  did  God  reveal  Him- 
self to  him,  than  he  exclaims:  "Behold  I  am  vile, 
and  abhor  myself  in  dust  and  ashes."  Ah!  my 

—82— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


friend,  'tis  pride  that  hinders  us  from  embracing 
Jesus!  we  would  be  our  own  Saviour,  and  scorn 
to  be  indebted  even  to  the  "Son  of  the  Most 
High."  But  this  is  the  only  sure  foundation  of 
our  hopes.  It  is  said  by  God  Himself,  "  'tis  to 
some  a  stumbling-block:  to  others  foolishness;" 
but  they  who  believe,  feel  it  to  be  the  "Wisdom 
of  God,  and  the  Power  of  God." 

If  my  head  did  not  ache,  I  would  continue  the 
subject.  I,  too,  hate  controversial  religion;  but 
this  is  the  "Religion  of  the  Bosom."  My  God! 
Sylvander,  why  am  I  so  anxious  to  make  you 
embrace  the  Gospel?  I  dare  not  probe  too  deep 
for  an  answer — let  your  heart  answer :  in  a  word 
— Benevolence.  When  I  return,  I'll  finish  this. 
Meantime,  adieu!  Sylvander,  I  intended  doing 
you  good:  if  it  prove  the  reverse,  I  shall  never 
forgive  myself.  Good  night. 

Tuesday,  Noon. — Just  returned  from  the 
Dean,  where  I  dined  and  supped  with  fourteen 
of  both  sexes :  all  stupid.  My  Mary  and  I  alone 
understood  each  other.  However,  we  were  joy- 
ous, and  I  sung  in  spite  of  my  cold;  but  no  wit. 
'Twould  have  been  pearls  before  swine  literalised. 
I  recollect  promising  to  write  you.  Sylvander, 
you'll  never  find  me  worse  than  my  word.  If 
you  have  written  me,  (which  I  hope,)  send  it  to 

—83— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


me  when  convenient,  either  at  nine  in  the  morn- 
ing or  evening.  I  fear  your  limb  may  be  worse 
from  staying  so  late.  I  have  other  fears  too: 
guess  them!  Oh!  my  friend,  I  wish  ardently  to 
maintain  your  esteem;  rather  than  forfeit  one 
iota  of  it,  I'd  be  content  never  to  be  wiser  than 
now.  Our  last  interview  has  raised  you  very 
high  in  mine.  I  have  met  with  few,  indeed,  of 
your  sex  who  understood  delicacy  in  such  circum- 
stances; yet  'tis  that  only  which  gives  a  relish  to 
such  delightful  intercourse.  Do  you  wish  to  pre- 
serve my  esteem,  Sylvander?  do  not  be  proud  to 
Clarinda!  She  deserves  it  not.  I  subscribe  to 
Lord  B.'s  sentiments  to  Swift;  yet  some  faults  I 
shall  still  sigh  over,  though  you  style  it  reproach 
even  to  hint  them.  Adieu !  You  have  it  much  in 
your  power  to  add  to  the  happiness  or  unhappi- 

ness  of 

CLARINDA. 


—84— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Monday  Evening,  11  o'clock. 

Why  have  I  not  heard  from  you,  Clarinda? 
To-day  I  expected  it;  and,  before  supper,  when 
a  letter  to  me  was  announced,  my  heart  danced 
with  rapture;  but  behold,  'twas  some  fool  who 
had  taken  it  into  his  head  to  turn  poet,  and  made 
me  an  offering  of  the  first  fruits  of  his  nonsense. 
It  is  not  poetry,  but  "prose  run  mad." 

Did  I  ever  repeat  to  you  an  epigram  I  made  on 
a  Mr.  Elphinstone,  who  has  given  a  translation 
of  Martial,  a  famous  Latin  poet?  The  poetry  of 
Elphinstone  can  only  equal  his  prose  notes.  I 
was  sitting  in  a  merchant's  shop  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, waiting  somebody ;  he  put  Elphinstone  into 
my  hand,  and  asked  my  opinion  of  it.  I  begged 
leave  to  write  it  on  a  blank  leaf,  which  I  did. 

TO  MR.   ELPHINSTONE,  &C. 

"O  thou  whom  poesy  abhors, 
Whom  prose  has  turned  out  of  doors, 
Heardst  thou  yon  groan  ?  proceed  no  further, 
'Twas  laurel'd  Martial  calling  murther." 

I  am  determined  to  see  you,  if  at  all  possible, 
on  Saturday  evening.  Next  week  I  must  sing — 


"The  night  is  my  departing  night, 
The  morn's  the  day  I  maun  awa ; 
There's  neither  friend  nor  foe  of  mine, 
But  wishes  that  I  were  awa. 

What  I  hae  done  for  lack  of  wit, 
I  never,  never  can  reca'; 
I  hope  ye're  a'  my  friends  as  yet. 
Gude  night,  and  joy  be  wi'  you  a'." 

If  I  could  see  you  sooner,  I  would  be  so  much 
the  happier;  but  I  would  not  purchase  the  dear- 
est gratification  on  earth,  if  it  must  be  at  your 
expense  in  worldly  censure,  far  less  inward  peace. 

I  shall  certainly  be  ashamed  of  thus  scrawling 
whole  sheets  of  incoherence.  The  only  unity  (a 
sad  word  with  poets  and  critics)  in  my  ideas,  is 
Clarinda. — There  my  heart  "reigns  and  revels." 

"What  art  thou,  Love?  whence  are  those  charms, 
That  thus  thou  bear'st  an  universal  rule? 
For  thee  the  soldier  quite  his  arms, 
The  king  turns  slave,  the  wise  man  fool. 
In  vain  we  chase  thee  from  the  field, 
And  with  cool  thoughts  resist  thy  yoke; 
Next  tide  of  blood,  alas!  we  yield, 
And  all  those  high  resolves  are  broke !" 

I  like  to  have  quotations  ready  for  every  occa- 
sion.   They  give  one's  ideas  so  pat,  and  save  one 
—86— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


the  trouble  of  finding  expression  adequate  to 
one's  feelings.  I  think  it  is  one  of  the  greatest 
pleasures  attending  a  poetic  genius,  that  we  can 
give  our  woes,  cares,  joys,  loves,  &c.,  an  embodied 
form  in  verse,  which,  to  me,  is  ever  immediate 
ease.  Goldsmith  says  finely  of  his  muse 

"Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss  and  all  my  woe; 
Who  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me 
so." 

My  limb  has  been  so  well  to-day,  that  I  have 
gone  up  and  down  stairs  often  without  my  staff. 
To-morrow  I  hope  to  walk  once  again  on  my 
own  legs  to  dinner.  It  is  only  next  street. 
Adieu  1 

SYLVANDER. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Tuesday  Evening. 

That  you  have  faults,  my  Clarinda,  I  never 
doubted ;  but  I  know  not  where  they  existed ;  and 
Saturday  night  made  me  more  in  the  dark  than 
ever.  O,  Clarinda!  why  would  you  wound  my 
soul  by  hinting  that  last  night  must  have  les- 
sened my  opinion  of  you.  True,  I  was  behind  the 
scenes  with  you;  but  what  did  I  see?  A  bosom 
glowing  with  honour  and  benevolence;  a  mind 
ennobled  by  genius,  informed  and  refined  by 
education  and  reflection,  and  exalted  by  native 
religion,  genuine  as  in  the  climes  of  Heaven;  a 
heart  formed  for  all  the  glorious  meltings  of 
friendship,  love  and  pity.  These  I  saw.  I  saw 
the  noblest  immortal  soul  creation  ever  showed 
me. 

I  looked  long,  my  dear  Clarinda,  for  your 
letter;  and  am  vexed  that  you  are  complaining. 
I  have  not  caught  you  so  far  wrong  as  in  your 
dea — that  the  commerce  you  have  with  one  friend 
hurts  you,  if  you  cannot  tell  every  tittle  of  it  to 
another.  Why  have  so  injurious  a  suspicion  of  a 
good  God,  Clarinda,  as  to  think  that  Friendship 
and  Love,  on  the  sacred,  inviolate  principles  of 

—88— 


SYLVANDEE  AND    CLARINDA 


Truth,  Honour  and  Religion,  can  be  anything 
else  than  an  object  of  His  divine  approbation? 

I  have  mentioned,  in  some  of  my  former 
scrawls,  Saturday  evening  next.  Do  allow  me 
to  wait  on  you  that  evening.  Oh,  my  angel !  how 
soon  must  we  part! — and  when  can  we  meet 
again?  I  look  forward  on  the  horrid  interval 
with  tearful  eyes.  What  have  I  not  lost  by  not 
knowing  you  sooner!  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  acquaint- 
ance with  you  is  too  short  to  make  that  lasting 
impression  on  your  heart  I  could  wish. 

SYLVANDER. 


—89— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLAEINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Wednesday  Morning. 

Your  mother's  wish  was  fully  realised.  I  slept 
sounder  last  night  than  for  weeks  past — and 
I  had  a  "blithe  wakening":  for  your  letter  was 
the  first  object  my  eyes  opened  on.  Sylvander, 
I  fancy  you  and  Vulcan  are  intimates:  he  has 
lent  you  a  key  which  opens  Clarinda's  heart  at 
pleasure,  shows  you  what  is  there,  and  enables 
you  to  adapt  yourself  to  its  every  feeling!  I 
believe  I  shall  give  over  writing  you.  Your 
letters  are  too  much!  my  way  is,  alas!  "hedged 
in";  but  had  I,  like  Sylvander,  "the  world  be- 
fore me,"  I  should  bid  him,  if  he  had  a  friend 
that  loved  me,  tell  him  to  write  as  he  does, 
and  "that  would  woo  me."  Seriously,  you  are 
the  first  letter-writer  I  ever  knew.  I  only  won- 
der how  you  can  be  fashed  with  my  scrawls.  I 
impute  it  to  partialities.  Either  to-morrow  or 
Friday  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you.  On  Sat- 
urday, I  am  not  sure  of  being  alone,  or  at  home. 
Say  which  you'll  come?  Come  to  tea  if  you 
please;  but  eight  will  be  an  hour  less  liable  to 
intrusions.  I  hope  you'll  come  afoot  even  though 
you  take  a  chair  home.  A  chair  is  so  uncommon 
a  thing  in  our  neighbourhood,  it  is  apt  to  raise 

—90— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


speculation — but  they  are  all  asleep  by  ten.  I 
am  happy  to  hear  of  your  being  able  to  walk — 
even  to  the  next  street.  You  are  a  consummate 
flatterer;  really  my  cheeks  glow  while  I  read 
your  flights  of  Fancy.  I  fancy  you  see  I  like 
it,  when  you  peep  into  the  Repository.  I  know 
none  insensible  to  that  "delightful  essence."  If 
I  grow  affected  or  conceited,  you  are  alone  to 
blame.  Ah,  my  friend!  these  are  disgusting 
qualities!  but  I  am  not  afraid.  I  know  any 
merit  I  may  have  perfectly — but  I  know  many 
sad  counterbalances. 

Your  lines  on  Elphinstone  were  clever,  beyond 
anything  I  ever  saw  of  the  kind;  I  know  the 
character — the  figure  is  enough  to  make  one  cry, 
Murder !  He  is  a  complete  pedant  in  language ; 
but  are  not  you  and  I  pedants  in  something 
else?  Yes,  but  in  far  superior  things:  Love, 
Friendship,  Poesy,  Religion!  Ah,  Sylvander! 
you  have  murdered  Humility,  and  I  can  say 
thou  didst  it.  You  carry  your  warmth  too  far 
as  to  Miss  Napier,  (not  Nairn;)  yet  I  am 
pleased  at  it.  She  is  sensible,  lively,  and  well- 
liked  they  say.  She  was  not  to  know  Clarinda 
was  "divine,"  and  therefore  kept  her  distance. 
She  is  comely,  but  a  thick  bad  figure, — waddles 
in  her  pace,  and  has  rosy  cheeks. 

—91— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


Wha  is  that  clumsy  damsel  there? 
Whisht!  it's  the  daughter  of  a  Peer, 
Right  honorably  Great! 

The  daughter  of  a  Peer,  I  cried, 

It  doth  not  yet  appear 
What  we  shall  be  (in  t'other  world), 

God  keep  us  frae  this  here! 
That  she  has  Blude,  I'se  no  dispute, 

I  see  it  in  her  face; 
Her  honour's  in  her  name,  I  fear, 

And  in  nae  other  place. 

I  hate  myself  for  being  satirical — hate  me  for 
it  too.  I'll  certainly  go  to  Miers  to  please  you, 
either  with  Mary  or  Miss  Nimmo.  Sylvander, 
some  interesting  parts  of  yours  I  cannot  enter 
on  at  present.  I  dare  not  think  upon  parting — 
upon  the  interval ;  but  I  am  sure  both  are  wisely 
ordered  for  our  good.  A  line  in  return  to  tell 
me  which  night  you'll  be  with  me.  "Lasting 
impression!"  Your  key  might  have  shown  you 
me  better.  Say,  my  lover,  poet,  and  my  friend, 
what  day  next  month  the  Eternity  will  end? 
When  you  use  your  key,  don't  rummage  too 
much,  lest  you  find  I  am  half  as  great  a  fool  in 
the  tender  as  yourself.  Farewell!  Sylvander. 
I  may  sign,  for  I  am  already  sealed  your  friend. 

CLARINDA. 

—92— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Sunday  Night. 

The  impertinence  of  fools  has  joined  with  the 
return  of  an  old  indisposition  to  make  me  good 
for  nothing  to-day.  The  paper  has  lain  before 
me  all  this  evening  to  write  to  my  dear  Clarinda ; 
but 

"Fools  rush'd  on  fools,  as  waves  succeed  to 
waves." 

I  cursed  them  in  my  soul:  they  sacrilegiously 
disturb  my  meditations  on  her  who  holds  my 
heart.  What  a  creature  is  man!  A  little  alarm 
last  night  and  to-day  that  I  am  mortal,  has 
made  such  a  revolution  in  my  spirits!  There  is 
no  philosophy,  no  divinity,  comes  half  so  home 
to  the  mind.  I  have  no  idea  of  courage  that 
braves  Heaven.  'Tis  the  wild  ravings  of  an 
imaginary  hero  in  Bedlam.  I  can  no  more, 
Clarinda;  I  can  scarce  hold  up  my  head;  but  I 
am  happy  you  don't  know  it,  you  would  be  so 
uneasy.  SYLVANDER. 

Monday  Morning. 

I  am,  my  lovely  friend,  much  better  this  morn- 
ing, on  the  whole;  but  I  have  a  horrid  languor 
on  my  spirits. 

—93— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


"Sick  of  the  world  and  all  its  joy, 
My  soul  in  pining  sadness  mourns ; 
Dark  scenes  of  woe  my  mind  employ, 
The  past  and  present  in  their  turns." 

Have  you  ever  met  with  a  saying  of  the  great 
and  likewise  good  Mr.  Locke,  author  of  the 
famous  essay  on  the  Human  Understanding? 
He  wrote  a  letter  to  a  friend,  directing  it  "Not 
to  be  delivered  till  after  my  decease."  It  ended 
thus* — "I  know  you  loved  me  when  living,  and 
will  preserve  my  memory  now  I  am  dead.  All 
the  use  to  be  made  of  it  is,  that  this  life  affords 
no  solid  satisfaction,  but  in  the  consciousness  of 
having  done  well,  and  the  hopes  of  another  life. 
Adieu!  I  leave  my  best  wishes  with  you. — 
J.  Locke." 

Clarinda,  may  I  reckon  on  your  friendship  for 
life?  I  think  I  may.  Thou  Almighty  Preserver 
of  men!  Thy  friendship,  which  hitherto  I  have 
too  much  neglected,  to  secure  it  shall,  all  the 
future  days  and  nights  of  my  life,  be  my  steady 
care.  The  idea  of  my  Clarinda  follows : — 

"Hide  it,  my  heart,  within  that  close  disguise, 
Where,  mix'd  with  God's,  her  lov'd  idea  lies." 

But  I  fear  inconstancy,  the  consequent  imper- 
fection of  human  weakness.    Shall  I  meet  with 
—94— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


a  friendship  that  defies  years  of  absence  and  the 
chances  and  changes  of  fortune?  Perhaps  "such 
things  are."  One  honest  man  I  have  great  hopes 
from  that  way ;  but  who,  except  a  romance  writer, 
would  think  on  a  love  that  could  promise  for  life, 
in  spite  of  distance,  absence,  chance  and  change, 
and  that,  too,  with  slender  hopes  of  fruition? 

For  my  own  part,  I  can  say  to  myself  in  both 
requisitions — "Thou  art  the  man."  I  dare,  in 
cool  resolve,  I  dare  declare  myself  that  friend 
and  that  lover.  If  womankind  is  capable  of  such 
things,  Clarinda  is.  I  trust  that  she  is;  and  feel 
I  shall  be  miserable  if  she  is  not.  There  is  not 
one  virtue  which  gives  worth,  or  one  sentiment 
which  does  honour  to  the  sex,  that  she  does  not 
possess  superior  to  any  woman  I  ever  saw:  her 
exalted  mind,  aided  a  little,  perhaps,  by  her  sit- 
uation, is,  I  think,  capable  of  that  nobly-romantic 
love-enthusiasm.  May  I  see  you  on  Wednesday 
evening,  my  dear  angel?  The  next  Wednesday 
again,  will,  I  conjecture,  be  a  hated  day  to  us 
both.  I  tremble  for  censorious  remarks,  for  your 
sake;  but  in  extraordinary  cases,  may  not  usual 
and  useful  precaution  be  a  little  dispensed  with? 
Three  evenings,  three  swift-winged  evenings, 
with  pinions  of  down,  are  all  the  past — I  dare  not 
calculate  the  future.  I  shall  call  at  Miss  Nim- 

—95— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


mo's  to-morrow  evening;  'twill  be  a  farewell  call. 

I  have  written  out  my  last  sheet  of  paper,  so  I 
am  reduced  to  my  last  half-sheet.  What  a 
strange,  mysterious  faculty  is  that  thing  called 
imagination!  We  have  no  ideas  almost  at  all, 
of  another  world;  but  I  have  often  amused  my- 
self with  visionary  schemes  of  what  happiness 
might  be  enjoyed  by  small  alterations,  altera- 
tions that  we  can  fully  enter  to  in  this  present 
state  of  existence.  For  instance:  supposing  you 
and  I  just  as  we  are  at  present;  the  same  rea- 
soning powers,  sentiments,  and  even  desires;  the 
same  fond  curiosity  for  knowledge  and  remark- 
ing observation  in  our  minds;  and  imagine  our 
bodies  free  from  pain,  and  the  necessary  supplies 
for  the  wants  of  nature  at  all  times  and  easily 
within  our  reach.  Imagine,  further,  that  we  were 
set  free  from  the  laws  of  gravitation,  which  bind 
us  to  this  globe,  and  could  at  pleasure  fly,  with- 
out inconvenience,  through  all  the  yet  uncon- 
jectured  bounds  of  creation;  what  a  life  of  bliss 
should  we  lead  in  our  mutual  pursuit  of  virtue 
and  knowledge,  and  our  mutual  enjoyment  of 
friendship  and  love ! 

I  see  you  laughing  at  my  fairy  fancies,  and 
calling  me  a  voluptuous  Mahometan;  but  I  am 
certain  I  should  be  a  happy  creature,  beyond  any- 

—96— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


thing  we  call  bliss  here  below:  nay,  it  would  be 
a  paradise  congenial  to  you  too.  Don't  you  see 
us  hand  in  hand,  or  rather  my  arm  about  your 
lovely  waist,  making  our  remarks  on  Sirius,  the 
nearest  of  the  fixed  stars ;  or  surveying  the  comet 
flaming  innoxious  by  us,  as  we  just  now  would 
mark  the  passing  pomp  of  a  travelling  monarch ; 
or  in  a  shady  bower  of  Mercury  or  Venus,  dedi- 
cating the  hour  to  love,  in  mutual  converse,  rely- 
ing honour,  and  revelling  endearment,  while  the 
most  exalted  strains  of  poesy  and  harmony  would 
be  the  ready,  spontaneous  language  of  our  souls ! 
Devotion  is  the  favourite  employment  of  your 
heart;  so  is  it  of  mine:  what  incentives  then  to, 
and  powers  for  reverence,  gratitude,  faith,  and 
hope,  in  all  the  fervour  of  adoration  and  praise 
to  that  Being,  whose  unsearchable  wisdom, 
power,  and  goodness,  so  pervaded,  so  inspired, 
every  sense  and  feeling!  By  this  time,  I  dare- 
say, you  will  be  blessing  the  neglect  of  the  maid 
that  leaves  me  destitute  of  paper. 

SYLVANDER. 


-97— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Thursday  Morning. 

"Unlavish  Wisdom  never  works  in  vain." 

I  have  been  tasking  my  reason,  Clarinda,  why 
a  woman,  who,  for  native  genius,  poignant  wit, 
strength  of  mind,  generous  sincerity  of  soul  and 
the  sweetest  female  tenderness,  is  without  a  peer ; 
and  whose  personal  charms  have  few,  very  few 
parallels  among  her  sex ;  why,  or  how,  she  should 
fall  to  the  blessed  lot  of  a  poor  harum-scarum 
poet,  whom  Fortune  had  kept  for  her  particular 
use  to  wreak  her  temper  on,  whenever  she  was  in 
ill-humour. 

One  time  I  conjectured  that,  as  Fortune  is  the 
most  capricious  jade  ever  known,  she  may  have 
taken,  not  a  fit  of  remorse,  but  a  paroxysm  of 
whim,  to  raise  the  poor  devil  out  of  the  mire 
where  he  had  so  often,  and  so  conveniently, 
served  her  as  a  stepping-stone,  and  given  him  the 
most  glorious  boon  she  ever  had  in  her  gift, 
merely  for  the  maggot's  sake,  to  see  how  his 
fool  head  and  his  fool  heart  will  bear  it. 

At  other  times,  I  was  vain  enough  to  think 
that  Nature,  who  has  a  great  deal  to  say  with 
Fortune,  had  given  the  coquettish  goddess  some 
such  hint  as — "Here  is  a  paragon  of  female  ex- 

—98— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


cellence,  whose  equal,  in  all  my  former  composi- 
tions, I  never  was  lucky  enough  to  hit  on,  and 
despair  of  ever  doing  so  again:  you  have  cast 
her  rather  in  the  shades  of  life.  There  is  a  cer- 
tain poet  of  my  making:  among  your  frolics,  it 
would  not  be  amiss  to  attach  him  to  this  master- 
piece of  my  hand,  to  give  her  that  immortality 
among  mankind,  which  no  woman  of  any  age 
ever  more  deserved,  and  which  few  rhymesters 
of  this  a)ge  are  better  able  to  confer/' 

Evening.,  Nine  O'clock. 

I  am  here — absolutely  unfit  to  finish  my  letter 
— pretty  hearty  after  a  bowl  which  has  been 
constantly  plied  since  dinner  till  this  moment. 
I  have  been  with  Mr.  Schetki  the  musician,  and 
he  has  set  the  song  *  finely.  I  have  no  distinct 

*  TO  CLARINDA 

Clarinda,  mistress  of  my  soul, 
The  measured  time  is  run! 
The  wretch  beneath  the  dreary  pole 
So  marks  his  latest  sun. 

To  what  dark  cave  of  frozen  night 
Shall  poor  Sylvander  hie, 
Deprived  of  thee,  his  life  and  light — 
The  sun  of  all  his  joy? 

We  part — but  by  those  precious  drops 

That  fill  thy  lovely  eyes !  [over] 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


ideas  of  anything,  but  that  I  have  drunk  your 
health  twice  to-night,  and  that  you  are  all  my 
soul  holds  dear  in  this  world. 

SYLVANDER. 

•To  CLARINDA  (Continued) 

No  other  light  shall  guide  my  steps 
Till  thy  bright  beams  arise. 

She,  the  fair  sun  of  all  her  sex 
Has  blest  my  glorious  day; 
And  shall  a  glimmering  planet  fix 
My  worship  to  its  ray? 


—100— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Thursday  Forenoon. 

Sylvander,  the  moment  I  waked  this  morning, 
I  received  a  summons  from  Conscience  to  appear 
at  the  Bar  of  Reason.  While  I  trembled  before 
this  sacred  throne,  I  beheld  a  succession  of  fig- 
ures pass  before  me  in  awful  brightness!  Re- 
ligion, clad  in  a  robe  of  light,  stalked  majestically 
along,  her  hair  dishevelled,  and  in  her  hand  the 
Scripture  of  Truth,  held  open  at  these  words — 
"If  you  love  me,  keep  my  commandments." 
Reputation  followed:  her  eyes  darted  indigna- 
tion, while  she  waved  a  beautiful  wreath  of  laurel, 
intermixed  with  flowers,  gathered  by  Modesty  in 
the  Bower  of  Peace.  Consideration  held  her 
bright  mirror  close  to  my  eyes,  and  made  me  start 
at  my  own  image!  Love  alone  appeared  as 
counsel  in  my  behalf.  She  was  adorned  with  a 
veil,  borrowed  from  Friendship,  which  hid  her  de- 
fects and  set  off  her  beauties  to  advantage.  She 
had  no  plea  to  offer,  but  that  of  being  the  sister 
of  Friendship,  and  the  offspring  of  Charity.  But 
Reason  refused  to  listen  to  her  defence,  because 
she  brought  no  certificate  from  the  Temple  of 
Hymen!  While  I  trembled  before  her,  Reason 
addressed  me  in  the  following  manner: — "Re- 

—101— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


turn  to  my  paths,  which  alone  are  peace;  shut 
your  heart  against  the  fascinating  intrusion  of 
the  passions;  take  Consideration  for  your  guide, 
and  you  will  soon  arrive  at  the  Bower  of  Tran- 
quillity." 

Sylvander,  to  drop  my  metaphor,  I  am  neither 
well  nor  happy  to-day:  my  heart  reproaches  me 
for  last  night.  If  you  wish  Clarinda  to  regain 
her  peace,  determine  against  everything  but  what 
the  strictest  delicacy  warrants. 

I  do  not  blame  you,  but  myself.  I  must  not 
see  you  on  Saturday,  unless  I  find  I  can  depend 
on  myself  acting  otherwise.  Delicacy,  you  know, 
it  was  which  won  me  to  you  at  once:  take  care 
you  do  not  loosen  the  dearest,  most  sacred  tie 
that  unites  us!  Remember  Clarinda's  present 
and  eternal  happiness  depends  upon  her  adher- 
ence to  Virtue.  Happy  Sylvander!  that  can 
be  attached  to  Heaven  and  Clarinda  together. 
Alas!  I  feel  I  cannot  serve  two  masters!  God 
pity  me  II 

Thursday  Night. 

Why  have  I  not  heard  from  you,  Sylvander? 
Everything  in  nature  seems  tinged  with  gloom 
to-day.  Ah!  Sylvander 

"The  heart's  ay  the  part  ay 
That  makes  us  right  or  wrang!" 
—102— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


How  forcibly  have  these  lines  recurred  to  my 
thoughts!  Did  I  not  tell  you  what  a  wretch 
love  rendered  me?  Affection  to  the  strongest 
height,  I  am  capable  of,  to  a  man  of  my  Sylvan- 
der's  merit — if  it  did  not  lead  me  into  weak- 
nesses and  follies  my  heart  utterly  condemns. 
I  am  convinced,  without  the  approbation  of 
Heaven  and  my  own  mind,  existence  would  be  to 
me  a  heavy  curse.  Sylvander,  why  do  not  your 
Clarinda's  repeated  levities  cure  the  too  passion- 
ate fondness  you  express  for  her?  Perhaps  it 
has  a  little  removed  esteem.  But  I  dare  not 
touch  this  string — it  would  fill  up  the  cup  of  my 
present  misery.  Oh,  Sylvander,  may  the  friend- 
ship of  that  God,  you  and  I  have  too  much  neg- 
lected to  secure,  be  henceforth  our  chief  study 
and  delight.  I  cannot  live  deprived  of  the  con- 
sciousness of  His  favour.  I  feel  something  of 
this  awful  state  all  this  day.  Nay,  while  I  ap- 
proached God  with  my  lips,  my  heart  was  not 
fully  there. 

Mr.  Locke's  posthumous  letter  ought  to  be 
written  in  letters  of  gold. — What  heartfelt  joy 
does  the  consciousness  of  having  done  well  in 
any  one  instance  confer;  and  what  agony  the 
reverse!  Do  not  be  displeased  when  I  tell  you 
I  wish  our  parting  was  over.  At  a  distance  we 

—103— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


shall  retain  the  same  heartfelt  affection  and  in- 
terestedness  in  each  other's  concerns; — but  ab- 
sence will  mellow  and  restrain  those  violent  heart- 
agitations  which,  if  continued  much  longer,  would 
unhinge  my  very  soul,  and  render  me  unfit  for 
the  duties  of  life.  You  and  I  are  capable  of  that 
ardency  of  love,  for  which  the  wide  creation  can- 
not afford  an  adequate  object.  Let  us  seek  to 
repose  it  in  the  bosom  of  our  God.  Let  us  next 
give  a  place  to  those  dearest  on  earth — the  ten- 
der charities  of  parent,  sister,  child!  I  bid  you 
good  night  with  this  short  prayer  of  Thom- 
son's  

"Father  of  Light  and  Life,  thou  good  Supreme! 
Oh  teach  us  what  is  good — teach  us  Thyself! 
Save  us  from  Folly,  Vanity  and  Vice,"  &c. 

Your  letter — I  should  have  liked  had  it  con- 
tained a  little  of  the  last  one's  seriousness.  Bless 
me! — You  must  not  flatter  so;  but  it's  in  a 
"merry  mood,"  and  I  make  allowances.  Part  of 
some  of  your  encomiums,  I  know  I  deserve;  but 
you  are  far  out  when  you  enumerate  "strength 
of  mind"  among  them.  I  have  not  even  an  ordi- 
nary share  of  it — every  passion  does  what  it  will 
with  me ;  and  all  my  life,  I  have  been  guided  by 

—104— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


the  impulse  of  the  moment — unsteady,  and  weak. 
I  thank  you  for  the  letter,  though  it  stickit  my 
prayer.  Why  did  you  tell  me  you  drank  away 
Reason,  "that  Heaven-lighted  lamp  in  man"? 
When  Sylvander  utters  a  calm,  sober  sentiment, 
he  is  never  half  so  charming.*  I  have  read  sev- 
eral of  these  in  your  last  letter  with  vast  pleasure. 
Good  night! 

Friday  Morning. 

My  servant  (who  is  a  good  soul)  will  deliver 
you  this.  She  is  going  down  to  Leith,  and  will 
return  about  two  or  three  o'clock.  I  have  or- 
dered her  to  call  then,  in  case  you  have  aught 
to  say  to  Clarinda  to-day.  I  am  better  of  that 
sickness  at  my  heart  I  had  yesterday ;  but  there's 
a  sting  remains,  which  will  not  be  removed  till  I 
am  at  peace  with  Heaven  and  myself.  Another 
interview,  spent  as  we  ought,  will  help  to  procure 
this.  A  day  when  the  sun  shines  gloriously,  al- 
ways makes  me  devout!  I  hope  'tis  an  earnest 
(to-day)  of  soon  being  restored  to  the  "light  of 
His  countenance,"  who  is  the  source  of  love  and 
standard  of  perfection.  Adieu! 

CLARINDA. 

*  As  Wallace  remarks  with  dry  humour,  "Clarinda's  agitation 
here  proved  fatal  to  her  correct  style.  She  says  exactly  the  op- 
posite of  what  she  meant." 

—105— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Clarinda,  my  life,  you  have  wounded  my  soul. 
Can  I  Ihink  of  your  being  unhappy,  even  though 
it  be  not  described  in  your  pathetic  elegance  of 
language,  without  being  miserable?  Clarinda, 
can  I  bear  to  be  told  from  you  that  "you  will  not 
see  me  to-morrow  night — that  you  wish  the  hour 
of  parting  were  come!"  Do  not  let  us  impose  on 
ourselves  by  sounds.  If,  in  the  moment  of  fond 
endearment  and  tender  dalliance,  I  perhaps  tres- 
passed against  the  letter  of  Decorum's  law,  I  ap- 
peal, even  to  you,  whether  I  ever  sinned,  in  the 
very  least  degree,  against  the  spirit  of  her  strict- 
est statute?  But  why,  my  love,  talk  to  me  in 
such  strong  terms ;  every  word  of  which  cuts  me 
to  the  very  soul?  You  know  a  hint,  the  slightest 
signification  of  your  wish,  is  to  me  a  sacred  com- 
mand. 

Be  reconciled,  my  angel,  to  your  God,  your- 
self, and  to  me;  and  I  pledge  you  Sylvander's 
honour — an  oath,  I  dare  say,  you  will  trust  with- 
out reserve,  that  you  shall  never  more  have  rea- 
son to  complain  of  his  conduct.  Now,  my  love, 
do  not  wound  our  next  meeting  with  any  averted 
looks  or  restrained  caresses.  I  have  marked  the 
line  of  conduct — a  line,  I  know,  exactly  to  your 


SYLVANDEB,   AND    CLARINDA 


taste — and  which  I  will  inviolably  keep;  but  do 
not  you  show  the  least  inclination  to  make 
boundaries.  Seeming  distrust,  where  you  know 
you  may  confide,  is  a  cruel  sin  against  sensibility. 

"Delicacy,  you  know,  it  was  which  won  me  to 
you  at  once;  take  care  you  do  not  loosen  the 
dearest,  the  most  sacred  tie  that  unites  us."  Cla- 
rinda,  I  would  not  have  stung  your  soul — I 
would  not  have  bruised  your  spirit,  as  that  harsh 
crucifying  "Take  care"  did  mine;  no,  not  to  have 
gained  heaven!  Let  me  again  appeal  to  your 
dear  self,  if  Sylvander,  even  when  he  seemingly 
half -transgressed  the  laws  of  decorum,  if  he  did 
not  show  more  chastised,  trembling,  faltering 
delicacy,  than  many  of  the  world  do  in  keeping 
these  laws? 

Oh  Love  and  Sensibility,  ye  have  conspired 
against  my  peace!  I  love  to  madness  and  I  feel 
to  torture!  Clarinda,  how  can  I  forgive  myself 
that  I  have  ever  touched  a  single  chord  in  your 
bosom  with  pain!  would  I  do  it  willingly? 
Would  any  consideration,  any  gratification,  make 
me  do  so?  Oh,  did  you  love  like  me,  you  would 
not,  you  could  not,  deny  or  put  off  a  meeting 
with  the  man  who  adores  you; — who  would  die 
a  thousand  deaths  before  he  would  injure  you; 
and  who  must  soon  bid  you  a  long  farewell! 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


I  had  proposed  bringing  my  bosom  friend, 
Mr.  Ainslie,  to-morrow  evening,  at  his  strong  re- 
quest, to  see  you ;  as  he  has  only  time  to  stay  with 
us  about  ten  minutes,  for  an  engagement.  But  I 
shall  hear  from  you :  this  afternoon,  for  mercy's 
sake ! — for,  till  I  hear  from  you,  I  am  wretched. 
O  Clarinda,  the  tie  that  binds  me  to  thee  is  in- 
twisted,  incorporated,  with  my  dearest  threads  of 
life! 

SYLVANDER. 


—108- 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  was  on  my  way,  my  Love,  to  meet  you,  (I 
never  do  things  by  halves, )  when  I  got  your  card. 
Mr.  Ainslie  goes  out  of  town  to-morrow  morn- 
ing, to  see  a  brother  of  his  who  is  newly  arrived 
from  France.  I  am  determined  that  he  and  I 
shall  call  on  you  together.  So,  look  you,  lest  I 
should  never  see  to-morrow,  I  will  call  on  you 
to-night.  Mary  and  you  may  put  off  tea  till 
about  seven,  at  which  time,  in  the  Galloway 
phrase,  "an'  the  beast  be  to  the  fore  and  the 
branks  bide  hale,"  expect  the  humblest  of  your 
humble  servants,  and  his  dearest  friend.  We 
only  propose  staying  half  an  hour — "for  ought 
we  ken."  I  could  suffer  the  lash  of  misery  eleven 
months  in  the  year,  were  the  twelfth  to  be  com- 
posed of  hours  like  yester-night.  You  are  the 
soul  of  my  enjoyment;  all  else  is  of  the  stuff  of 
stocks  and  stones. 

SYLVANDER. 


—109— 


SYLVANDEE   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Sunday,  Noon. 

I  have  almost  given  up  the  Excise  idea.  I 
have  been  just  now  to  wait  on  a  great  person, 
Miss 's  friend,  .  Why  will  great  peo- 
ple not  only  deafen  us  with  the  din  of  their  equi- 
page, and  dazzle  us  with  their  fastidious  pomp, 
but  they  must  also  be  so  very  dictatorially  wise? 
I  have  been  questioned  like  a  child  about  my  mat- 
ters, and  blamed  and  schooled  for  my  Inscription 
on  Stirling  window.  Come,  Clarinda! — "Come, 
curse  me,  Jacob;  come,  defy  me,  Israel!" 

Sunday  Night. 

I  have  been  with  Miss  Nimmo.  She  is,  indeed, 
"a  good  soul,"  as  my  Clarinda  finely  says.  She 
has  reconciled  me,  in  a  good  measure,  to  the 
world  with  her  friendly  prattle. 

Schetki  has  sent  me  the  song,  set  to  a  fine  air  of 
his  composing.  I  have  called  the  song  Clarinda: 
I  have  carried  it  about  in  my  pocket  and  thumbed 
it  over  all  day. 

Monday  Morning. 

If  my  prayers  have  any  weight  in  heaven,  this 
morning  looks  in  on  you  and  finds  you  in  the 
—110— 


SYLVANDEE   AND    CLARINDA 


arms  of  peace,  except  where  it  is  charmingly  in- 
terrupted by  the  ardours  of  devotion.  I  find  so 
much  serenity  of  mind,  so  much  positive  pleas- 
ure, so  much  fearless  daring  toward  the  world, 
when  I  warm  in  devotion,  or  feel  the  glorious  sen- 
sation— a  consciousness  of  Almighty  friendship 
• — that  I  am  sure  I  shall  soon  be  an  honest  en- 
thusiast. 

"How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord! 
How  sure  is  their  defence! 
Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 
Their  help  Omnipotence." 

I  am,  my  dear  Madam,  yours, 

SYLVANDEE. 


—Ill- 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLAKINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Sunday,  Eighth  Evening. 

Sylvander,  when  I  think  of  you  as  my  dearest 
and  most  attached  friend,  I  am  highly  pleased; 
but  when  you  come  across  my  mind  as  my  lover, 
something  within  gives  a  sting  resembling  that 
of  guilt.  Tell  me  why  is  this  ?  It  must  be  from 
the  idea  that  I  am  another's.  What?  another's 
wife!  Oh  cruel  Fate!  I  am,  indeed,  bound  in 
an  iron  chain.  Forgive  me,  if  this  should  give 
you  pain.  You  know  I  must  (I  told  you  I  must) 
tell  you  my  genuine  feelings,  or  be  silent.  Last 
night  we  were  happy  beyond  what  the  bulk  of 
mankind  can  conceive.  Perhaps  the  "line"  you 
had  marked  was  a  little  infringed, — it  was  really ; 
but,  though  I  disapprove,  I  have  not  been  un- 
happy about  it.  I  am  convinced  no  less  of  your 
discernment,  than  of  your  wish  to  make  your 
Clarinda  happy.  I  know  you  sincere,  when  you 
profess  horror  at  the  idea  of  what  would  render 
her  miserable  forever.  Yet  we  must  guard 
against  going  to  the  verge  of  danger.  Ah!  my 
friend,  much  need  had  we  to  "watch  and  pray!" 
May  those  benevolent  spirits,  whose  office  it  is 
to  save  the  fall  of  Virtue  struggling  on  the  brink 

—112— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


of  Vice,  be  ever  present  to  protect  and  guide  us 
in  right  paths! 

I  had  an  hour's  conversation  to-day  with  my 
worthy  friend,  Mr.  Kemp.*  You'll  attribute, 
perhaps,  to  this,  the  above  sentiments.  'Tis  true, 
there's  not  one  on  earth  has  so  much  influence 
on  me,  except — Sylvander;  partly  it  has  forced 
me  "to  feel  along  the  Mental  Intelligence." 
However,  I've  broke  the  ice.  I  confessed  I  had 
received  a  tender  impression  of  late — that  it  was 
mutual,  and  that  I  had  wished  to  unbosom  myself 
to  him  (as  I  always  did),  particularly  to  ask  if 
he  thought  I  should,  or  not;  mention  it  to  my 
friend?  I  saw  he  felt  for  me,  (for  I  was  in 
tears ;)  but  he  bewailed  that  I  had  given  my  heart 
while  in  my  present  state  of  bondage;  wished  I 
had  made  it  friendship  only;  in  short,  talked  to 
me  in  the  style  of  a  tender  parent,  anxious  for 
my  happiness.  He  disapproves  altogether  of 
my  saying  a  syllable  of  the  matter  to  my  friend, 
— says  it  could  only  make  him  uneasy;  and  that 
I  am  in  no  way  bound  to  do  it  by  any  one  tie. 
This  has  eased  me  of  a  load  which  has  lain  upon 
my  mind  ever  since  our  intimacy.  Sylvander,  I 
wish  you  and  Mr.  Kemp  were  acquainted, — such 
worth  and  sensibility!  If  you  had  his  piety  and 

*  Her  pastor. 

—113— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


sobriety  of  manners,  united  to  the  shining  abili- 
ties you  possess,  you'd  be  "a  faultless  monster 
which  the  world  ne'er  saw."  He,  too,  has  great 
talents.  His  imagination  is  rich — his  feelings 
delicate — his  discernment  acute;  yet  there  are 
shades  in  his,  as  in  all  characters:  but  these  it 
would  ill  become  Clarinda  to  point  out.  Alas! 
I  know  too  many  blots  in  my  own. 

Sylvander,  I  believe  nothing  were  a  more  im- 
practicable task  than  to  make  you  feel  a  little 
of  the  genuine  gospel  humility.  Believe  me,  I 
wish  not  to  see  you  deprived  of  that  noble  fire 
of  an  exalted  mind  which  you  eminently  possess. 
Yet  a  sense  of  your  faults — a  feeling  sense  of 
them ! — were  devoutly  to  be  wished.  Tell  me,  did 
you  ever,  or  how  oft  have  you  smote  on  your 
breast,  and  cried,  "God  be  merciful  to  me  a 
sinner?"  I  fancy,  once  or  twice,  when  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  your  errors.  Pardon  me  if  I 
be  hurting  your  "intrinsic  dignity" ;  it  need  not — 
even  "divine  Clarinda"  has  been  in  this  mortal 
predicament. 

Pray,  what  does  Mr.  Ainslie  tfiink  of  her? 
Was  he  not  astonished  to  find  her  merely  human? 
Three  weeks  ago,  I  suppose  you  would  have 
made  him  walk  into  her  presence  unshod:  but 
one  must  bury  even  divinities  when  they  discover 

—114— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


symptoms  of  mortality! — (Let  these  be  interred 
in  Sylvander's  bosom.) 

My  dearest  friend,  there  are  two  wishes  upper- 
most in  my  heart:  to  see  you  think  alike  with 
Clarinda  on  religion,  and  settled  in  some  credit- 
able line  of  business.  The  warm  interest  I  take 
in  both  these  is,  perhaps,  the  best  proof  of  my 
friendship — as  well  as  earnest  of  its  duration. 
As  to  the  first,  I  devolve  it  over  into  the  hands 
of  the  Omniscient !  May  he  raise  up  friends  who 
will  effectuate  the  other!  While  I  breathe  these 
fervent  wishes,  think  not  anything  but  pure  dis- 
interested regard  prompts  them.  They  are  fond 
but  chimerical  ideas.  They  are  never  indulged 
but  in  the  hour  of  tender  endearment,  when 
"Innocence 

Looked  gaily  smiling  on,  while  rosy  Pleasure 
Hid  young  Desire  amid  her  flowery  wreath, 
And  poured  her  cup  luxuriant,  mantling  high 
The   sparkling,   Heavenly  vintage — Love  and 
Bliss." 

'Tis  past  ten — and  I  please  myself  with  think- 
ing Sylvander  will  be  about  to  retire  and  write 
to  Clarinda.  I  fancy  you'll  find  this  stupid 
enough;  but  I  can't  be  always  bright — the  sun 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


will  be  sometimes  under  a  cloud.  Sylvander,  I 
wish  our  kind  feelings  were  more  moderate ;  why 
set  one's  heart  upon  impossibilities?  Try  me 
merely  as  your  friend  (alas,  all  I  ought  to  be). 
Believe  me,  you'll  find  me  most  rational.  If 
you'd  caress  the  "mental  intelligence"  as  you 
do  the  corporeal  frame,  indeed,  Sylvander,  you'd 
make  me  a  philosopher.  I  see  you  fidgeting  at 
this  violently  blasting  rationality.  I  have  a 
headache  which  brings  home  these  things  to  the 
mind.  To-morrow  I'll  hear  from  you,  I  hope. 
This  is  Sunday,  and  not  a  word  on  our  favourite 
subject.  O  fy,  "divine  Clarinda."  I  intend  giv- 
ing you  my  idea  of  Heaven  in  opposition  to  your 
heathenish  description  (which,  by  the  by,  was  ele- 
gantly drawn) .  Mine  shall  be  founded  on  Rea- 
son and  supported  by  Scripture ;  but  it's  too  late, 
my  head  aches,  but  my  heart  is  affectionately 

yours. 

i 

Monday  Morning. 

I  am  almost  not  sorry  at  the  Excise  affair 
misgiving.  You  will  be  better  out  of  Edinburgh 
— it  is  full  of  temptation  to  one  of  your  social 
turn. 

Providence  (if  you  will  be  wise  in  future)  will 
order  something  better  for  you.  I  am  half  glad 

—116— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


you  were  schooled  about  the  Inscription;  'twill 
be  a  lesson,  I  hope,  in  future.  Clarinda  would 
have  lectured  you  on  it  before,  "if  she  dared." 
Miss  Nimmo  is  a  woman  after  my  own  heart. 
You  are  reconciled  to  the  world  by  her  "friendly 
prattle!"  How  can  you  talk  so  diminutively  of 
the  conversation  of  a  woman  of  solid  sense  ?  what 
will  you  say  of  Clarinda's  chit  chat?  I  suppose 
you  would  give  it  a  still  more  insignificant  term 
if  you  dared ;  but  it  is  mixed  with  something  that 
makes  it  bearable,  were  it  even  weaker  than  it  is. 
Miss  Nimmo  is  right  in  both  her  conjectures. 
Ah,  Sylvander!  my  peace  must  suffer — yours 
cannot.  You  think,  in  loving  Clarinda,  you  are 
doing  right;  all  Sylvander's  eloquence  cannot 
convince  me  that  it  is  so!  If  I  were  but  at  lib- 
erty— Oh,  how  I  would  indulge  in  all  the  luxury 
of  innocent  love!  It  is,  I  fear,  too  late  to  talk 
in  this  strain,  after  indulging  you  and  myself  so 
much;  but  would  Sylvander  shelter  his  Love  in 
Friendship's  allowed  garb,  Clarinda  would  be  far 
happier. 

To-morrow,  didst  thou  say?  The  time  is  short 
now — is  it  not  too  frequent?  do  not  sweetest 
dainties  cloy  soonest?  Take  your  chance — come 
half-past  eight.  If  anything  particular  occur 
to  render  it  improper  to-morrow,  I'll  send  you 

—117— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


word,  and  name  another  evening.  Mr.  Kemp  is 
to  call  to-night,  I  believe.  He,  too,  trembles  for 
my  peace.  Two  such  worthies  to  be  interested 
about  my  foolish  ladyship!  The  Apostle  Paul, 
with  all  his  rhetoric,  could  not  reconcile  me  to 
the  great  (little  souls)  when  I  think  of  them  and 
Sylvander  together;  but  I  pity  them, 

"If  e'er  ambition  did  my  fancy  cheat, 
With  any  wish  so  mean,  as  to  be  great, 
Continue,  Heaven,  far  from  me  to  remove 
The  humble  blessings  of  that  life  I  love." 

Till  we  meet,  my  dear  Sylvander,  adieu ! 

CLARINDA. 


—118— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Sunday  Morning. 

I  have  just  been  before  the  throne  of  my  God, 
Clarinda.  According  to  my  association  of  ideas, 
my  sentiments  of  love  and  friendship,  I  next  de- 
vote myself  to  you.  Yesternight  I  was  happy — 
happiness  "that  the  world  cannot  give."  I  kindle 
at  the  recollection;  but  it  is  a  flame  where  Inno- 
cence looks  smiling  on,  and  Honour  stands  by,  a 
sacred  guard.  Your  heart,  your  fondest  wishes, 
your  dearest  thoughts,  these  are  yours  to  bestow : 
your  person  is  unapproachable,  by  the  laws  of 
your  country ;  and  he  loves  not  as  I  do  who  would 
make  you  miserable. 

You  are  an  angel,  Clarinda :  you  are  surely  no 
mortal  that  "the  earth  owns."  To  kiss  your 
hand,  to  live  on  your  smile,  is  to  me  far  more 
exquisite  bliss  than  any  of  the  dearest  favours 
that  the  fairest  of  the  sex,  yourself  excepted,  can 
bestow. 

Sunday  Evening. 

You  are  the  constant  companion  of  my 
thoughts.  How  wretched  is  the  condition  of  one 
who  is  haunted  with  conscious  guilt,  and  trem- 
bling under  the  idea  of  dreaded  vengeance !  And 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


what  a  placid  calm,  what  a  charming  secret  en- 
joyment, is  given  to  one's  bosom  by  the  kind 
feelings  of  friendship  and  the  fond  throes  of 
love !  Out  upon  the  tempest  of  Anger,  the  acri- 
monious gall  of  fretful  Impatience,  the  sullen 
frost  of  lowering  Resentment,  or  the  corroding 
poison  of  withered  Envy!  They  eat  up  the  im- 
mortal part  of  man!  If  they  spent  their  fury 
only  on  the  unfortunate  objects  of  them,  it  would 
be  something  in  their  favour ;  but  these  miserable 
passions,  like  traitor  Iscariot,  betray  their  Lord 
and  Master. 

Thou  Almighty  Author  of  peace,  and  good- 
ness, and  love!  do  Thou  give  me  the  social  heart 
that  kindly  tastes  of  every  man's  cup!  Is  it  a 
draught  of  joy? — warm  and  open  my  heart  to 
share  it  with  cordial,  unenvying  rejoicing!  Is  it 
the  bitter  potion  of  sorrow? — melt  my  heart  with 
sincerely  sympathetic  woe!  Above  all,  do  Thou 
give  me  the  manly  mind,  that  resolutely  exempli- 
fies in  life  and  manners  those  sentiments  which 
I  would  wish  to  be  thought  to  possess!  The 
friend  of  my  soul — there  may  I  never  deviate 
from  the  firmest  fidelity  and  most  active  kind- 
ness! Clarinda,  the  dear  object  of  my  fondest 
love;  there,  may  the  most  sacred,  inviolate  hon- 
our, the  most  faithful,  kindling  constancy,  ever 

»— 120— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


watch  and  animate  my  every  thought  and  imagi- 
nation ! 

Did  you  ever  meet  the  following  lines  spoken 
of  Religion,  your  darling  topic? 

"  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning 

bright ! 

'Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horror  of  our  night ! 
When  wealth  forsakes  us,  and  when  friends 

are  few; 
When    friends    are    faithless,    or   when   foes 

pursue ; 

'Tis  this  that  wards  the  blow  or  stills  the  smart, 
Disarms  affliction,  or  repels  its  dart : 
Within  the  breast  bids  purest  rapture  rise, 
Bids  smiling  Conscience  spread  her  cloudless 

skies." 

I  met  with  these  verses  very  early  in  life,  and 
was  so  delighted  with  them  that  I  have  them  by 
me,  copied  at  school. 

Good  night,  and  sound  rest, 

My  dearest  Clarinda. 

SYLVANDER. 


-121— 


SYLVANDER    AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Wednesday  Evening,  Nine. 

There  is  not  a  sentiment  in  your  last  dear  letter 
but  must  meet  the  approbation  of  every  worthy 
discerning  mind — except  one — "that  my  heart, 
my  fondest  wishes,"  are  mine  to  bestow.  True, 
they  are  not,  they  cannot  be  placed  upon  him  who 
ought  to  have  had  them,  but  whose  conduct  (I 
dare  not  say  more  against  him),  has  justly  for- 
feited them.  But  is  it  not  too  near  an  infringe- 
ment of  the  sacred  obligations  of  marriage  to 
bestow  one's  heart,  wishes,  and  thoughts  upon 
another?  Something  in  my  soul  whispers  that  it 
approaches  criminality.  I  obey  the  voice.  Let 
me  cast  every  kind  feeling  into  the  allowed  bond 
of  Friendship.  If  'tis  accompanied  with  a 
shadow  of  a  softer  feeling,  it  shall  be  poured  into 
the  bosom  of  a  merciful  God !  If  a  confession  of 
my  warmest,  tenderest  friendship  does  not  sat- 
isfy you,  duty  forbids  Clarinda  should  do  more! 
Sylvander,  I  never  expect  to  be  happy  here  be- 
low! Why  was  I  formed  so  susceptible  of  emo- 
tions I  dare  not  indulge?  Never  were  there  two 
hearts  formed  so  exactly  alike  as  ours !  No  won- 
der our  friendship  is  heightened  by  the  "sym- 
pathetic glow."  In  reading  your  Life,  I  find 

—122— 


6YLVANDEE   AND    CLARINDA 


the  very  first  poems  that  hit  your  fancy,  were 
those  that  first  engaged  mine.  While  almost  a 
child,  the  hymn  you  mentioned,  and  another  of 
Addison's,  "When  all  thy  mercies,"  &c.,  were  my 
chief  favourites.  They  are  much  so  to  this  hour ; 
and  I  make  my  boys  repeat  them  every  Sabbath 
day.  When  about  fifteen,  I  took  a  great  fond- 
ness for  Pope's  "Messiah,"  which  I  still  reckon 
one  of  the  sublimest  pieces  I  ever  met  with. 

Sylvander,  I  believe  our  friendship  will  be 
lasting;  its  basis  has  been  virtue,  similarity  of 
tastes,  feelings,  and  sentiments.  Alas !  I  shudder 
at  the  idea  of  an  hundred  miles  distance.  You'll 
hardly  write  me  once  a-month,  and  other  objects 
will  weaken  your  affection  for  Clarinda.  Yet  I 
cannot  believe  so.  Oh,  let  the  scenes  of  Nature 
remind  you  of  Clarinda!  In  winter,  remember 
the  dark  shades  of  her  fate;  in  summer,  the 
warmth,  the  cordial  warmth,  of  her  friendship; 
in  autumn,  her  glowing  wishes  to  bestow  plenty 
on  all;  and  let  spring  animate  you  with  hopes, 
that  your  friend  may  yet  live  to  surmount  the 
wintry  blasts  of  life,  and  revive  to  taste  a  spring- 
time of  happiness !  At  all  events,  Sylvander,  the 
storms  of  life  will  quickly  pass,  and  "one  un- 
bounded spring  encircle  all."  There,  Sylvander, 
I  trust  we'll  meet.  Love,  there,  is  not  a  crime. 

— 123-- 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  charge  you  to  meet  me  there — Oh,  God! — I 
must  lay  down  my  pen. — I  repent,  almost,  flat- 
tering your  writing  talents  so  much:  I  can  see 
you  know  all  the  merit  you  possess.  The  allusion 
of  the  key  is  true  therefore  I  won't  recant  it; 
but  I  rather  was  too  humble  about  my  own  let- 
ters. I  have  met  with  several  who  wrote  worse 
than  myself,  and  few,  of  my  own  sex,  better;  so 
I  don't  give  you  great  credit  for  being  fashed 
with  them. 

Sylvander,  I  have  things  with  different  friends 
I  can't  tell  to  another,  yet  am  not  hurt ;  but  I  told 
you  of-  that  particular  friend :  he  was,  for  near 
four  years,  the  one  I  confided  in.  He  is  very 
worthy,  and  answers  your  description  in  the 
"Epistle  to  J.  S."  exactly.  When  I  had  hardly 
a  friend  to  care  for  me  in  Edinburgh,  he  be- 
friended me.  I  saw,  too  soon,  'twas  with  him  a 
warmer  feeling:  perhaps  a  little  infection  was 
the  natural  effect.  I  told  you  the  circumstances 
which  helped  to  eradicate  the  tender  impression 
in  me;  but  I  perceive  (though  he  never  tells  me 
so) — I  see  it  in  every  instance — his  prepossession 
still  remains.  I  esteem  him  as  a  faithful  friend ; 
but  I  can  never  feel  more  for  him.  I  fear  he's 
not  convinced  of  that.  He  sees  no  man  with  me 
half  so  often  as  himself;  and  thinks  I  surely  am 

—124— 


at  least  partial  to  no  other.  I  cannot  bear  to 
deceive  one  in  so  tender  a  point,  and  am  hurt  at 
his  harbouring  an  attachment  I  never  can  return. 
I  have  thoughts  of  owning  my  intimacy  with 
Sylvander;  but  a  thousand  things  forbid  it.  I 
should  be  tortured  with  Jealousy,  that  "green- 
eyed  monster;"  and,  besides,  I  fear  'twould 
wound  his  peace.  'Tis  a  delicate  affair.  I  wish 
your  judgment  on  it.  O  Sylvander,  I  cannot 
bear  to  give  pain  to  any  creature,  far  less  to 
one  who  pays  me  the  attention  of  a  brother! 

I  never  met  with  a  man  congenial,  perfectly 
congenial  to  myself  but  one — ask  no  questions, 
Is  Friday  to  be  the  last  night  ?  I  wish,  Sylvander, 
you'd  steal  away — I  cannot  bear  farewell !  I  can 
hardly  relish  the  idea  of  meeting — for  the  idea! 
but  we  will  meet  again,  at  least  in  Heaven,  I 
hope.  Sylvander,  when  I  survey  myself,  my 
returning  weaknesses,  I  am  consoled  that  my 
hopes,  my  immortal  hopes,  are  founded  in  the 
complete  righteousness  of  a  compassionate 
Saviour.  "In  all  our  afflictions,  He  is  afflicted, 
and  the  angel  of  His  presence  guards  us." 

I  am  charmed  with  the  lines  on  Religion,  and 
with  you  for  relishing  them.  I  only  wish  the 
world  saw  you,  as  you  appear  in  your  letters  to 
me.  Why  did  you  send  forth  to  them  "The 

—125— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


Holy  Fair,"  &c.?  Had  Clarinda  known  you, 
she  would  have  held  you  in  her  arms  till  she  had 
your  promise  to  suppress  them.  Do  not  publish 
the  "Moor  Hen."  Do  not,  for  your  sake,  and 
for  mine.  I  wish  you  vastly  to  hear  my  valued 
friend,  Mr.  Kemp.  Come  to  hear  him  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  'Tis  the  first  favour  I  have  asked 
you :  I  expect  you'll  not  refuse  me.  You'll  easily 
get  a  seat.  Your  favourite,  Mr.  Gould,  I  admire 
much.  His  composition  is  elegant  indeed! — but 
'tis  like  beholding  a  beautiful  superstructure 
built  on  a  sandy  foundation:  'tis  fine  to  look 
upon;  but  one  dares  not  abide  in  it  with  safety. 
Mr.  Kemp's  language  is  very  good, — perhaps  not 
such  studied  periods  as  Mr.  G's;  but  he  is  far 
more  animated.  He  is  pathetic  in  a  degree  that 
touches  one's  soul!  and  then,  'tis  all  built  upon 
a  rock. 

I  could  chide  you  for  the  Parting  Song.  It 
wrings  my  heart.  "You  may  reca'  " — by  being 
wise  in  future — "y°ur  friend  as  yet."  I  will  be 
your  friend  for  ever!  Good  night!  God  bless 
you!  prays 

CLARINDA. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Thursday  Noon. 

I  shall  go  to-morrow  forenoon  to  Miers* 
alone :  'tis  quite  a  usual  thing  I  hear.  Mary  is  not 
in  town,  and  I  don't  care  to  ask  Miss  Nimmo,  or 
anybody  else.  What  size  do  you  want  it  about? 
O  Sylvander,  if  you  wish  my  peace,  let  Friend- 
ship be  the  word  between  us :  I  tremble  at  more. 
"Talk  not  of  Love,"  &c.  To-morrow  I'll  expect 
you.  Adieu ! 

CLARINDA. 

*  Miers  was  a  miniature  painter  whose  "shades"    (silhouettes) 
were  especially  popular. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Thursday  Night. 

I  cannot  be  easy,  my  Clarinda,  while  any  sen- 
timent respecting  me  in  your  bosom  gives  you 
pain.  If  there  is  no  man  on  earth  to  whom  your 
heart  and  affections  are  justly  due,  it  may  savour 
of  imprudence,  but  never  of  criminality,  to  be- 
stow that  heart  and  those  affections  where  you 
please.  The  God  of  love  meant  and  made  those 
delicious  attachments  to  be  bestowed  on  some- 
body; and  even  all  the  imprudence  lies  in  be- 
stowing them  on  an  unworthy  object.  If  this 
reasoning  is  conclusive,  as  it  certainly  is,  I  must 
be  allowed  to  "talk  of  Love." 

It  is,  perhaps,  rather  wrong  to  speak  highly  to 
a  friend  of  his  letter :  it  is  apt  to  lay  one  under  a 
little  restraint  in  their  future  letters,  and  re- 
straint is  the  death  of  a  friendly  epistle ;  but  there 
is  one  passage  in  your  last  charming  letter, 
Thomson  nor  Shenstone  never  exceeded  it  nor 
often  came  up  to  it.  I  shall  certainly  steal  it, 
and  set  it  in  some  future  poetic  production,  and 
get  immortal  fame  by  it.  'Tis  when  you  bid  the 
scenes  of  nature  remind  me  of  Clarinda.  Can  I 
forget  you,  Clarinda?  I  would  detest  myself  as 
a  tasteless,  unfeeling,  insipid,  infamous,  block- 

—128— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


head!  I  have  loved  women  of  ordinary  merit, 
whom  I  could  have  loved  for  ever.  You  are  the 
first  the  only  unexceptionable  individual  of  the 
beauteous  sex  that  I  ever  met  with;  and  never 
woman  more  entirely  possessed  my  soul.  I  know 
myself,  and  how  far  I  can  depend  on  passions, 
well.  It  has  been  my  peculiar  study. 

I  thank  you  for  going  to  Miers.  Urge  him, 
for  necessity  calls,  to  have  it  done  by  the  middle 
of  next  week:  Wednesday  the  latest  day.  I 
want  it  for  a  breast-pin,  to  wear  next  my  heart. 
I  propose  to  keep  sacred  set  times,  to  wander  in 
the  woods  and  wilds  for  meditation  on  you. 
Then,  and  only  then,  your  lovely  image  shall  be 
produced  to  the  day,  with  a  reverence  akin  to 
devotion. 

To-morrow  night  shall  not  be  the  last.  Good 
night!  I  am  perfectly  stupid,  as  I  supped  late 
yesternight. 

SYLVANDER. 


—129— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Saturday  Evening. 

I  am  wishing,  Sylvander,  for  the  power  of 
looking  into  your  heart.  It  would  be  but  fair — 
for  you  have  the  key  of  mine.  You  are  possessed 
of  acute  discernment.  I  am  not  deficient  either 
in  that  respect.  Last  night  must  have  shown 
you  Clarinda  not  "divine" — but  as  she  really  is. 
I  can't  recollect  some  things  I  said  without  a  de- 
gree of  pain.  Nature  has  been  kind  to  me  in 
several  respects ;  but  one  essential  she  has  denied 
me  entirely:  it  is  that  instantaneous  perception 
of  fit  and  unfit,  which  is  so  useful  in  the  conduct 
of  life.  No  one  can  discriminate  more  accurately 
afterwards  than  Clarinda.  But  when  her  heart 
is  expanded  by  the  influence  of  kindness,  she  loses 
all  command  of  it,  and  often  suffers  severely  in 
the  recollection  of  her  unguardedness.  You  must 
have  perceived  this;  but,  at  any  rate,  I  wish  you 
to  know  me  as  "I  really  am."  I  would  have 
given  much  for  society  to-day;  for  I  can't  bear 
my  own :  but  no  human  being  has  come  near  me. 
Well  as  I  like  you,  Sylvander,  I  would  rather 
lose  your  love  than  your  esteem :  the  first  I  ought 

—130— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


not  to  wish;  the  other  I  shall  ever  endeavour  to 
maintain.  But  no  more  of  this :  you  prohibit  it, 
and  I  obey. 

For  many  years,  have  I  sought  for  a  male 
friend  endowed  with  sentiments  like  yours;  one 
who  could  love  me  with  tenderness,  yet  unmixed 
with  selfishness:  who  could  be  my  friend,  com- 
panion, protector,  and  who  would  die  sooner  than' 
injure  me.  I  sought — but  I  sought  in  vain! 
Heaven  has,  I  hope,  sent  me  this  blessing  in 
Sylvander!  Whatever  weaknesses  may  cleave 
to  Clarinda,  her  heart  is  not  to  blame :  whatever 
it  may  have  been  by  nature,  it  is  unsullied  by 
art.  If  she  dare  dispose  of  it — last  night  can 
leave  you  at  no  loss  to  guess  the  man : 

Then,  dear  Sylvander,  use  it  weel, 
An'  row  it  in  your  bosom's  biel; 
You'll  find  it  aye  baith  kind  and  leal, 

And  fou'o'  glee; 
It  wadna  wrang  the  very  deil, — 

Ah,  far  less  thee! 

How  do  you  like  this  parody  on  a  passage  of 
my  favourite  poet? — it  is  extempore — from  the 
heart ;  and  let  it  be  to  the  heart.  I  am  to  enclose 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


the  first  fruits  of  my  muse,  "To  a  Blackbird."  * 
It  has  no  poetic  merit;  but  it  bespeaks  a  sweet 
f eminine  mind — such  a  one  as  I  wish  mine  to  be ; 
but  my  vivacity  deprives  me  of  that  softness 
which  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  first  'female  orna- 
ment. It  was  written  to  soothe  an  aching  heart. 
I  then  laboured  under  a  cruel  anguish  of  soul, 
which  I  cannot  tell  you  of.  If  I  ever  take  a 

walk  to  the  Temple  of  H ,  I'll  disclose  it; 

but  you  and  I  (were  it  even  possible)  would 
"fall  out  by  the  way."  The  lines  on  the  Soldier 
were  occasioned  by  reading  a  book  entitled  the 
"Sorrows  of  the  Heart."  Miss  Nimmo  was 
pleased  with  them,  and  sent  them  to  the  gentle- 
man. They  are  not  poetry,  but  they  speak  what 
I  felt  at  a  survey  of  so  much  filial  tenderness. 

*  TO  A  BLACKBIRD  SINGING  ON  A  TREE 

Morningside,  1784' 

Go  on,  sweet  bird,  and  soothe  my  care, 
Thy  cheerful  notes  will  hush  despair; 
Thy  tuneful  warblings,  void  of  art, 
Thrill  sweetly  through  my  aching  heart. 
Now  choose  thy  mate  and  fondly  love, 
And  all  the  charming  transport  prove; 
Those  sweet  emotions  all  enjoy, 
Let  Love  and  Song  thy  hours  employ; 
Whilst  I,  a  love-lorn  exile,  live, 
And  rapture  nor  receive  nor  give. 
Go  on,  sweet  bird,  and  soothe  my  care, 
Thy  cheerful  notes  will  hush  despair. 

The  other  poem  of  which  she  speaks  is  missing. 
—132— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  agree  with  you  in  liking  quotations.  If  they 
are  apt,  they  often  give  one's  ideas  more  pleas- 
antly than  our  own  language  can  at  all  times. 
I  am  stupid  to-night.  I  have  a  soreness  at  my 
heart.  I  conclude,  therefore,  with  a  verse  of 
Goldsmith,  which,  of  late,  has  become  an  im- 
mense favourite  of  mine  :— 

In  Nature's  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he; 

Genius  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me. 

Good  night,  "my  dear  Sylvander;"  say  this 
(like  Werter)  to  yourself. 

YOUR  CLARINDA. 

Sunday  Evening. 

I  would  have  given  much,  Sylvander,  that  you 
had  heard  Mr.  Kemp  this  afternoon.  You  would 
have  heard  my  principles,  and  the  foundation  of 
all  my  immortal  hopes,  elegantly  delivered.  "Let 
me  live  the  life  of  the  righteous,  and  my  latter 
end  be  like  his,"  was  the  text.  Who  are  the 
righteous?  "Those,"  says  Sylvander,  "whose 
minds  are  actuated  and  governed  by  purity, 
truth,  and  charity."  But  where  does  such  a  mind 
exist?  It  must  be  where  the  "soul  is  made  per- 

—133— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


feet,"  for  I  know  none  such  on  earth.  "The 
righteous,"  then,  must  mean  those  who  believe 
on  Christ,  and  rely  on  his  perfect  righteousness 
for  their  salvation.  "Everlasting"  life,  as  you 
observe,  is  in  the  power  of  all  to  embrace;  and 
this  is  eternal  life,  to  "believe  in  Him  whom 
God  hath  sent."  Purity,  truth,  and  charity,  will 
flow  from  this  belief,  as  naturally  as  the  stream 
from  the  fountain.  These  are,  indeed,  the  only 
evidences  we  can  have  of  the  reality  of  our  faith, 
and  they  must  be  produced  in  a  degree  ere  we 
can  be  fit  for  the  enjoyment  of  Heaven.  But 
where  is  the  man  who  dare  plead  these  before 
"Infinite  Holiness"?  Will  Inflexible  Justice 
pardon  our  thousand  violations  of  his  laws? 
Will  our  imperfect  repentance  and  amendments 
atone  for  past  guilt?  Or,  will  we  presume  to 
present  our  best  services  (spotted  as  they  are)  as 
worthy  of  acceptance  before  Unerring  Recti- 
tude? I  am  astonished  how  any  intelligent  mind, 
blessed  with  a  divine  revelation,  can  pause  a  mo- 
ment on  the  subject.  "Enter  not  into  judgment 
with  me,  O  Lord!  in  thy  sight  no  flesh  can  be 
justified!"  This  must  be  the  result  of  every  can- 
did mind,  upon  surveying  its  own  deserts.  If 
God  had  not  been  pleased  to  reveal  His  own  Son, 
as  our  all-sufficient  Saviour,  what  could  we  have 
—134— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


done  but  cried  for  mercy,  without  any  sure  hope 
of  obtaining  it  ?  But  when  we  have  Him  clearly 
announced  as  our  surety,  our  guide,  our  blessed 
advocate  with  the  Father,  who,  in  their  senses 
ought  to  hesitate,  in  putting  their  souls  into  the 
hands  of  this  glorious  "Prince  of  Peace"?  With- 
out this  we  may  admire  the  Creator  in  his  works, 
but  we  can  never  approach  him  with  the  confi- 
dential tenderness  of  children.  "I  will  arise  and 
go  to  my  father."  This  is  the  blessed  language 
of  every  one  who  believes  and  trusts  in  Jesus. 
Oh,  Sylvander,  who  would  go  on  fighting  with 
themselves,  resolving  and  resolving,  while  they 
can  thus  fly  to  their  Father's  house?  But  alas! 
it  is  not  till  we  tire  of  these  husks  of  our  own, 
that  we  recollect  that  there j  there  is  bread  enough 
and  to  spare.  Whenever  the  wish  is  sincerely 
formed  in  our  hearts,  our  Heavenly  Father  will 
have  compassion  on  us — "though  a  great  way 
off."  This  is  the  "religion  of  the  bosom."  I 
believe  that  there  will  be  many  of  every  sect,  na- 
tion and  people,  who  will  "stand  before  the 
throne";  but  I  believe  that  it  will  be  the  effect 
of  Christ's  atonement,  conveyed  to  them  by  ways 
too  complicated  for  our  finite  minds  to  compre- 
hend. But  why  should  we,  who  know  "the  way, 
the  truth,  and  the  life,"  deprive  ourselves  of  the 

—135— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


comfort  it  is  fitted  to  yield  ?  Let  my  earnest  wish 
for  your  eternal,  as  well  as  temporal  happiness, 
excuse  the  warmth  with  which  I  have  unfolded 
what  has  been  my  own  fixed  point  of  rest.  I  want 
no  controversy — I  hate  it;  let  our  only  strivings 
be,  who  shall  be  the  most  constant  and  attached 
friend, — which  of  us  shall  render  our  conduct 
most  approved  to  the  other.  I  am  well  aware 
how  vain  it  were  (vain  in  every  sense  of  the 
expression)  to  hope  to  sway  a  mind  so  intelli- 
gent as  yours,  by  any  arguments  I  could  devise. 
May  that  God,  who  spoke  worlds  into  existence, 
open  your  eyes  to  see  "the  truth,  as  it  is  in 
Jesus!"  Forgive  me,  Sylvander,  if  I've  been 
tedious  upon  my  favourite  theme.  You  know 
who  it  was,  who  could  not  stop  when  his  divinity 
came  across  him.  Even  there  you  see  we  are 
congenial. 

I'll  tell  you  a  pretty  apt  quotation  I  made  to- 
day, warm  from  my  heart.  I  met  the  Judges  in 
the  morning,  as  I  went  into  the  Parliament 
Square,  among  whom  was  my  Lord  Dreghorn,  in 
his  new  robes  of  purple.  He  is  my  mother's 
cousin-german,  the  greatest  real  honour  he  could 
ever  claim;  but  used  me  in  a  manner  unfeeling, 
harsh  beyond  description,  at  one  of  the  darkest 
periods  of  my  chequered  life.  I  looked  stead- 

—136— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


f astly  in  his  sour  face ;  his  eyes  met  mine.  I  was 
a  female,  and  therefore  he  stared;  but,  when  he 
knew  who  it  was,  he  averted  his  eyes  suddenly. 
Instantaneously  these  lines  darted  into  my  mind : 

"Would  you  the  purple  should  your  limbs  adorn, 
Go  wash  the  conscious  blemish  with  a  tear." 

The  man  who  enjoys  more  pleasure  in  the 
mercenary  embrace  of  a  courtezan,  than  in  re- 
lieving the  unfortunate,  is  a  detestable  character, 
whatever  his  bright  talents  may  be! 

I  pity  him!  Sylvander,  all  his  fortune  could 
not  purchase  half  the  luxury  of  Friday  night! 
Let  us  be  grateful  to  Heaven,  though  it  has  de- 
nied us  wealth  and  power,  for  being  endowed  with 
feelings,  fitted  to  yield  the  most  exquisite  enjoy- 
ments here  and  hereafter!  May  I  hope  you'll 
read  what  I  have  urged  on  Religion  with  atten- 
tion, Sylvander!  when  Reason  resumes  her 
reign?  I've  none  of  those  future  delusive  hopes, 
which  you  too  vainly  express  as  having  towards 
Clarinda.  Do  not  indulge  them;  my  wishes  ex- 
tend to  your  immortal  welfare.  Let  your  first 
care  be  to  please  God:  for  that,  which  He  de- 
lights in,  must  be  happiness.  I  must  conclude, 
or  I'll  relapse.  I  have  not  a  grain  of  humour 

—137— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


to-night  in  my  composition;  so,  lest  "charming 
Clarinda"  should  make  you  yawn,  she'll  decently 
say  "good  night!"  I  laugh  to  myself  at  the 
recollection  of  your  earnest  asseverations  as  to 
your  being  anti-Platonic!  Want  of  passions  is 
not  merit:  strong  ones,  under  the  control  of 
reason  and  religion — let  these  be  our  glory. 
Once  more  good  night. 

CLAEINDA. 


—138— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Saturday  Morning. 

There  is  no  time,  my  Clarinda,  when  the  con- 
scious thrilling  chords  of  Love  and  Friendship 
give  such  delight  as  in  the  pensive  hours  of  what 
our  favourite  Thomson  calls  "philosophic  melan- 
choly." The  sportive  insects,  who  bask  in  the 
sunshine  of  Prosperity,  or  the  worms,  that  lux- 
uriant crawl  amid  their  ample  wealth  of  earth; 
they  need  no  Clarinda — they  would  despise  Syl- 
vander,  if  they  dared.  The  family  of  Misfor- 
tune, a  numerous  group  of  brothers  and  sisters! 
—they  need  a  resting-place  to  their  souls.  Un- 
noticed, often  condemned  by  the  world — in  some 
degree,  perhaps,  condemned  by  themselves — 
they  feel  the  full  enjoyment  of  mutual  love,  deli- 
cate tender  endearments,  mutual  esteem,  and 
mutual  reliance. 

In  this  light,  I  have  often  admired  religion. 
In  proportion  as  we  are  wrung  with  grief,  or 
distracted  with  anxiety,  the  ideas  of  a  compas- 
sionate Deity,  an  Almighty  Protector,  are  doubly 
dear. 

"  'Tis  this,  my  friend,  that  streaks  our  morning 

bright ; 
"  'Tis  this  that  gilds  the  horrors  of  our  night." 

— 139— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  have  this  morning  been  taking  a  peep 
through,  as  Young  finely  says,  "the  dark  postern 
of  time  long  elapsed";  and  you  will  easily  guess 
'twas  a  rueful  prospect:  what  a  tissue  of 
thoughtlessness,  weakness  and  folly !  My  life  re- 
minded me  of  a  ruined  temple:  what  strength, 
what  proportion  in  some  parts! — what  unsightly 
gaps,  what  prostrate  ruins  in  others!  I  kneeled 
down  before  the  Father  of  Mercies,  and  said, 
"Father,  I  have  sinned  against  Heaven,  and  in 
thy  sight,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called 
thy  son!"  I  rose  eased  and  strengthened.  I 
despise  the  superstition  of  a  fanatic;  but  I  love 
the  religion  of  a  man.  "The  future,"  said  I  to 
myself,  "is  still  before  me:  there  let  me 

'On  reason  build  resolve — 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man!' 

I  have  difficulties  many  to  encounter,"  said  I; 
"but  they  are  not  absolutely  insuperable: — and 
where  is  firmness  of  mind  shown;  but  in  exer- 
tion? Mere  declamation  is  bombast  rant.  Be- 
sides, wherever  I  am,  or  in  whatever  situation  I 
may  be, 

'Tis  nought  to  me 
Since  God  is  ever  present,  ever  felt, 
In  the  void  waste  as  in  the  city  full; 
And  where  he  vital  breathes,  there  must  be  joy.' ' 
—140— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Saturday  Night,  Half  after  Ten. 
What  luxury  of  bliss  I  was  enjoying  this  time 
yesternight !  My  ever  dearest  Clarinda,  you  have 
stolen  away  my  soul:  but  you  have  refined,  you 
have  exalted  it;  you  have  given  it  a  stronger 
sense  of  virtue,  and  a  stronger  relish  for  piety. 
Clarinda,  first  of  your  sex!  if  ever  your  lovely 
image  is  effaced  from  my  soul, 

"May  I  be  lost,  no  eye  to  weep  my  end, 
And  find  no  earth  that's  base  enough  to  bury 
me!" 

What  trifling  silliness  is  the  childish  fondness 
of  the  every-day  children  of  the  world!  'Tis  the 
unmeaning  toying  of  the  younglings  of  the  fields 
and  forests;  but,  where  Sentiment  and  Fancy 
unite  their  sweets,  where  Taste  and  Delicacy  re- 
fine, where  Wit  adds  the  flavour,  and  Good  Sense 
gives  strength  and  spirit  to  all;  what  a  deli- 
cious draught  is  the  hour  of  tender  endearment! 
Beauty  and  Grace  in  the  arms  of  Truth  and 
Honour,  in  all  the  luxury  of  mutual  love. 

Clarinda,  have  you  ever  seen  the  picture  real- 
ised? not  in  all  its  very  richest  colouring,  but 

"Hope,  thou  nurse  of  young  Desire, 
Fair  promiser  of  Joy." — 

—141— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Last  night,  Clarinda,  but  for  one  slight  shade, 
was  the  glorious  picture — 

"Innocence 

Look'd  gaily  smiling  on;  while  rosy  Pleasure 
Hid  young  Desire  amid  her  flowery  wreath, 
And  pour'd  her  cup  luxuriant,  mantling  high, 
The   sparkling,   Heavenly  vintage — Love   and 
Bliss!" 

Clarinda,  when  a  poet  and  poetess  of  Nature's 
making — two  of  Nature's  noblest  productions ! — 
when  they  drink  together  of  the  same  cup  of 
Love  and  Bliss,  attempt  not,  ye  coarser  stuff  of 
human  nature!  profanely  to  measure  enjoyment 
ye  never  can  know. 

Good  night,  my  dear  Clarinda! 

SYLVANDER. 


•—1*9-* 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLAEINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

...  I  am  a  discontented  ghost,  a  perturbed 
spirit.  Clarinda,  if  ever  you  forget  Sylvander, 
may  you  be  happy,  but  he  will  be  miserable. 

O,  what  a  fool  I  am  in  love! — what  an  ex- 
travagant prodigal  of  affection!  Why  are  your 
sex  called  the  tender  sex,  when  I  have  never 
met  with  one  who  can  repay  me  in  passion?  They 
are  either  not  so  rich  in  love  as  I  am,  or  they 
are  niggards  where  I  am  lavish. 

0  Thou,  whose  I  am,  and  whose  are  all  my 
ways!    Thou  see'st  me  here,  the  hapless  wreck 
of  tides  and  tempests  in  my  own  bosom:  do  Thou 
direct  to  thyself  that  ardent  love,  for  which  I 
have  so  often  sought  a  return,  in  vain,  from  my 
fellow-creatures !    If  Thy  goodness  has  yet  such 
a  gift  in  store  for  me,  as  an  equal  return  of  af- 
fection from  her  who,  Thou  knowest,  is  dearer 
to  me  than  life,  do  Thou  bless  and  hallow  our 
band  of  love  and  friendship;  watch  over  us,  in 
all  our  outgoings  and  incomings,  for  good;  and 
may  the  tie  that  unites  our  hearts  be  strong  and 
indissoluble  as  the  thread  of  man's  immortal  life ! 

1  am  just  going  to  take  your  Blackbird,  the 
sweetest,  I  am  sure  that  ever  sung,  and  prune  its 
wings  a  little.  SYLVANDEE. 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  cannot  go  out  to-day,  my  dearest  love,  with- 
out sending  you  half  a  line  by  way  of  a  sin  offer- 
ing; but,  believe  me,  'twas  the  sin  of  ignorance. 
Could  you  think  that  I  intended  to  hurt  you  by 
anything  I  said  yesternight?  Nature  has  been  too, 
kind  to  you  for  your  happiness,  your  delicacy, 
your  sensibility.  O  why  should  such  glorious 
qualifications  be  the  fruitful  source  of  woe !  You 
have  "murdered  sleep"  to  me  last  night.  I  went 
to  bed  impressed  with  an  idea  that  you  were 
unhappy ;  and  every  start  I  closed  my  eyes,  busy 
Fancy  painted  you  in  such  scenes  of  romantic 
misery,  that  I  would  almost  be  persuaded  you  are 
not  well  this  morning. 

"If  I  unwitting  have  offended, 
Impute  it  not," 

— "But  while  we  live 

But  one  short  hour,  perhaps,  between  us  two 
Let  there  be  peace." 

If  Mary  is  not  gone  by  the  time  this  reaches 
you,  give  her  my  best  compliments.  She  is  a 
charming  girl  and  highly  worthy  of  the  noblest 
love. 

I  send  you  a  poem  to  read  till  I  call  on  you 

—144— 


SYLVANDEE  AND   CLARINDA 


this  night,  which  will  be  about  nine.  I  wish  I 
could  procure  some  potent  spell,  some  fairy 
charm,  that  would  protect  from  injury,  or  restore 
to  rest  that  bosom  chord,  "tremblingly  alive  all 
o'er,"  on  which  hangs  your  peace  of  mind.  I 
thought,  vainly  I  fear  thought,  that  the  devotion 
of  love  strong  as  even  you  can  feel,  love  guarded, 
invulnerably  guarded  by  all  the  purity  of  virtue 
and  all  the  pride  of  honour — I  thought  such  a 
love  might  make  you  happy.  Shall  I  be  mis- 
taken? I  can  no  more,  for  hurry. 

Tuesday  Morning. 


—145— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Thursday,  Twelve. 

I  have  been  giving  Mary  a  convoy;  the  day 
is  a  genial  one.  Mary  is  a  happy  woman  to-day. 
Mrs.  Cockburn  has  seen  her  "Henry"  and  ad- 
mired it  vastly.  She  talked  of  you,  told  her  she 
saw  you,  and  that  her  lines  even  met  your  ap- 
plause! Sylvander,  I  share  in  the  joy  of  every 
one;  and  am  ready  to  "weep  with  those  who 
weep,"  as  well, — as  "rejoice  with  those  who  re- 
joice." I  wish  all  the  human  race  well  my  heart 
throbs  with  the  large  ambitious  wish  to  see  them 
blest;  yet  I  seem  sometimes  as  if  born  to  inflict 
misery.  What  a  cordial  evening  we  had  last 
night!  I  only  tremble  at  the  ardent  manner 
Mary  talks  of  Sylvander!  She  knows  where  his 
affections  lie,  and  is  quite  unconscious  of  the 
eagerness  of  her  expressions.  All  night  I  could 
get  no  sleep  for  her  admiration.  I  like  her  for 
it,  and  am  proud  of  it;  but  I  know  how  much 
violent  admiration  is  akin  to  love. 

I  go  out  to  dinner,  and  mean  to  leave  this,  in 
case  of  one  from  you  to-day.  Miss  Chalmers's 
letters  are  charming.  Why  did  not  such  a  woman 
secure  your  heart? — O  the  caprice  of  human  na- 
ture, to  fix  on  impossibilities. 

—146— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  am,  however,  happy  you  have  such  valuable 
friends.  What  a  pity  that  those  who  will  be 
most  apt  to  feel  your  merit,  will  probably  be 
among  the  number  who  have  not  the  power  of 
serving  you!  Sylvander,  I  never  was  ambitious; 
but  of  late  I  have  wished  for  wealth,  with  an 
ardour  unfelt  before,  to  be  able  to  say,  "Be  in- 
dependent, thou  dear  friend  of  my  heart !"  What 
exquisite  joy!  Then  "your  head  would  be  lifted 
up  above  your  enemies."  Oh,  then,  what  little 
shuffling,  sneaking  attentions! — shame  upon  the 
world!  Wealth  and  power  command  its  adula- 
tion, while  real  genius  and  worth,  without  these, 
are  neglected  and  contemned. 

"In  nature's  simplest  habit  clad, 
No  wealth  nor  power  had  he; 
Genius  and  worth  were  all  he  had, 
But  these  were  all  to  me." 

Forgive  my  quoting  my  most  favourite  lines. 
You  spoke  of  being  here  to-morrow  evening.  I 
believe  you  would  be  the  first  to  tire  of  our 
society;  but  I  tremble  for  censorious  remarks: 
however,  we  must  be  sober  in  our  hours.  I  am 
flat  to-day — so  adieu!  I  was  not  so  cheerful 
last  night  as  I  wished.  Forgive  me.  I  am 
yours,  CLARINDA. 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Friday  Morning }  7  O'clock. 

Your  fears  for  Mary  are  truly  laughable.  I 
suppose,  my  love,  you  and  I  showed  her  a  scene 
which,  perhaps,  made  her  wish  that  she  had  a 
swain,  and  one  who  could  love  like  me,  and 
'tis  a  thousand  pities  that  so  good  a  heart  as 
hers  should  want  an  aim,  an  object.  I  am  mis- 
erably stupid  this  morning.  Yesterday  I  dined 
with  a  Baronet,  and  sat  pretty  late  over  the 
bottle.  And  "who  hath  wo — who  hath  sorrow? 
they  that  tarry  long  at  the  wine;  they  that  go 
to  seek  mixed  wine."  Forgive  me,  likewise,  a 
quotation  from  my  favourite  author.  Solomon's 
knowledge  of  the  world  is  very  great.  He  may 
be  looked  upon  as  the  "Spectator"  or  "Adven- 
turer" of  his  day:  and  it  is  indeed,  surprising 
what  a  sameness  has  ever  been  in  human  nature. 
The  broken,  but  strongly  characterising  hints, 
that  the  royal  author  gives  us  of  the  manners 
of  the  court  of  Jerusalem  and  country  of  Israel 
are  in  their  great  outlines,  the  same  pictures  that 
London  and  England,  Versailles  and  France  ex- 
hibit some  three  thousand  years  later.  The  loves 
in  the  "Song  of  Songs"  are  all  in  the  spirit  of 
Lady  M.  W.  Montague  or  Madame  Ninon  de 

—148— 


SYLVANDEB  AND   CLARINDA 


1'Enclos;  though,  for  my  part,  I  dislike  both 
the  ancient  and  modern  voluptuaries;  and  will 
dare  to  affirm,  that  such  an  attachment  as  mine 
to  Clarinda,  and  such  evenings  as  she  and  I  have 
spent,  are  what  these  greatly  respectable  and 
deeply  experienced  Judges  of  Life  and  Love 
never  dreamed  of. 

I  shall  be  with  you  this  evening  between  eight 
and  nine,  and  shall  keep  as  sober  hours  as  you 
could  wish.  I  am  ever,  my  dear  Madam,  yours, 

SYLVANDEB. 


—149— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

These  letters  of  Clarinda  are  missing.  It 
would  seem  that  Mr.  Kemp  had  scored  her  rather 
harshly  for  continuing  the  intimacy  with  Burns 
in  spite  of  his  warnings. 

Wednesday. 

MY  EVER  DEAREST  CLARINDA, — I  make  a  numer- 
ous dinner-party  wait  me  while  I  read  yours  and 
write  this.  Do  not  require  that  I  should  cease 
to  love  you,  to  adore  you  in  my  soul;  'tis  to  me 
impossible:  your  peace  and  happiness  are  to  me 
dearer  than  my  soul.  Name  the  terms  on  which 
you  wish  to  see  me,  to  correspond  with  me,  and 
you  have  them.  I  must  love,  pine,  mourn  and 
adore  in  secret:  this  you  must  not  deny  me. 
You  will  ever  be  to  me 

"Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart." 

I  have  not  patience  to  read  the  Puritanic  scrawl. 
Damned  sophistry.  Ye  heavens,  thou  God  of 
nature,  thou  Redeemer  of  mankind !  ye  look  down 
with  approving  eyes  on  a  passion  inspired  by 
the  purest  flame,  and  guarded  by  truth,  delicacy 
and  honour;  but  the  half-inch  soul  of  an  unfeel- 
ing, cold-blooded,  pitiful  Presbyterian  bigot  can- 
—150— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


not  forgive  anything  above  his  dungeon-bosom 
and  foggy  head. 

Farewell!  I'll  be  with  you  to-morrow  eve- 
ning ;  and  be  at  rest  in  your  mind.  I  will  be  yours 
in  the  way  you  think  most  to  your  happiness.  I 
dare  not  proceed.  I  love,  and  will  love  you ;  and 
will,  with  joyous  confidence,  approach  the  throne 
of  the  Almighty  Judge  of  men  with  your  dear 
idea;  and  will  despise  the  scum  of  sentiment  and 
the  mist  of  sophistry. 

SYLVANDER. 


-151— 


SYLVANDEB  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Wednesday,  Midnight. 

MADAM, — After  a  wretched  day,  I  am  prepar- 
ing for  a  sleepless  night.  I  am  going  to  address 
myself  to  the  Almighty  Witness  of  my  actions — 
some  time,  perhaps  very  soon,  my  Almighty 
Judge.  I  am  not  going  to  be  the  advocate  of 
Passion :  be  Thou  my  inspirer  and  testimony,  O 
God,  as  I  plead  the  cause'  of  truth ! 

I  liave  read  over  your  friend's  haughty  dicta- 
torial letter:  you  are  only  answerable  to  your 
God  in  such  a  matter.  Who  gave  any  fellow- 
creature  of  yours  (a  fellow-creature  incapable  of 
being  your  judge,  because  not  your  peer,)  a  right 
to  catechise,  scold,  undervalue,  abuse,  and  insult, 
wantonly  and  inhumanly  to  insult  you  thus?  I 
don't  wish,  not  even  wish  to  deceive  you,  Madam. 
The  Searcher  of  hearts  is  my  witness  how  dear 
you  are  to  me;  but  though  it  were  possible  you 
could  be  still  dearer  to  me,  I  would  not  even  kiss 
your  hand,  at  the  expense  of  your  conscience. 
Away  with  declamation!  let  us  appeal  to  the 
bar  of  common  sense.  It  is  not  mouthing  every- 
thing sacred;  it  is  not  vague  ranting  assertions; 
it  is  not  assuming,  haughtily  and  insultingly  as- 
suming, the  dictatorial  language  of  a  Roman 

—152— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Pontiff,  that  must  dissolve  a  union  like  ours. 
Tell  me,  Madam,  are  you  under  the  least  shadow 
of  an  obligation  to  bestow  your  love,  tenderness, 
caresses,  affections,  heart  and  soul,  on  Mr. 
M'Lehose — the  man  who  has  repeatedly,  habitu- 
ally, and  barbarously  broken  through  every  tie  of 
duty,  nature,  or  gratitude  to  you?  The  laws  of 
your  country,  indeed,  for  the  most  useful  reasons 
of  policy  and  sound  government,  have  made  your 
person  inviolate;  but  are  your  heart  and  affec- 
tions bound  to  one  who  gives  not  the  least  return 
of  either  to  you?  You  cannot  do  it;  it  is  not  in 
the  nature  of  things  that  you  are  bound  to  do  it; 
the  common  feelings  of  humanity  forbid  it.  Have 
you,  then,  a  heart  and  affections  that  are  no  man's 
right?  You  have.  It  would  be  highly,  ridicu- 
lously absurd  to  suppose  the  contrary.  Tell  me 
then,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  can  it  be 
wrong,  is  such  a  supposition  compatible  with  the 
plainest  ideas  of  right  and  wrong,  that  it  is  im- 
proper to  bestow  the  heart  and  these  affections 
on  another — while  that  bestowing  is  not  in  the 
smallest  degree  hurtful  to  your  duty  to  God,  to 
your  children,  to  yourself,  or  to  society  at  large? 
This  is  the  great  test;  the  consequences:  let 
us  see  them.  In  a  widowed,  forlorn,  lonely  sit- 
uation, with  a  bosom  glowing  with  love  and  ten- 

—153— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLAKINDA 


derness,  yet  so  delicately  situated  that  you  cannot 
indulge  these  nobler  feelings  except  you  meet 
with  a  man  who  has  a  soul  capable  .  .  . 

The  rest  of  the  letter  is  missing. 


—154— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

"I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother  Jona- 
than." I  have  suffered,  Clarinda,  from  your 
letter.  My  soul  was  in  arms  at  the  sad  perusal. 
I  dreaded  that  I  had  acted  wrong.  If  I  have 
wronged  you,  God  forgive  me.  But,  Clarinda, 
be  comforted.  Let  us  raise  the  tone  of  our  feel- 
ings a  little  higher  and  bolder.  A  fellow-crea- 
ture who  leaves  us — who  spurns  us  without  just 
cause,  though  once  our  bosom-friend — up  with  a 
little  honest  pride:  let  them  go.  How  shall  I 
comfort  you,  who  am  the  cause  of  the  injury? 
Can  I  wish  that  I  had  never  seen  you — that  we 
had  never  met?  No,  I  never  will.  But  have  I 
thrown  you  friendless? — there  is  almost  distrac- 
tion in  the  thought.  Father  of  mercies!  against 
Thee  often  have  I  sinned:  through  Thy  grace 
I  will  endeavour  to  do  so  no  more.  She  who 
Thou  knowest  is  dearer  to  me  than  myself, — 
pour  Thou  the  balm  of  peace  into  her  past 
wounds,  and  hedge  her  about  with  Thy  peculiar 
care,  all  her  future  days  and  nights.  Strengthen 
her  tender,  noble  mind  firmly  to  suffer  and  mag- 
nanimously to  bear.  Make  me  worthy  of  that 
friendship,  that  love  she  honours  me  with.  May 
my  attachment  to  her  be  as  pure  as  devotion  and 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


as  lasting  as  immortal  life.  O,  Almighty  Good- 
ness, hear  me!  Be  to  her,  at  all  times,  particu- 
larly in  the  hour  of  distress  or  trial,  a  friend  and 
comforter,  a  guide  and  guard. 

"How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord, 

How  sure  is  their  defence! 
Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence." 

Forgive  me,  Clarinda,  the  injury  I  have  done 
you.  .  To-night  I  shall  be  with  you,  as  indeed  I 
shall  be  ill  at  ease  till  I  see  you. 

SYLVANDER. 


— 156— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Two  o'clock. 

I  just  now  received  your  first  letter  of 
yesterday,  by  the  careless  negligence  of  the 
penny  post.  Clarinda,  matters  are  grown  very 
serious  with  us :  then  seriously  hear  me,  and  hear 
me,  Heaven! 

I  met  you,  my  dear  Clarinda,  by  far  the  first 
of  womankind,  at  least  to  me.  I  esteemed,  I 
loved  you  at  first  sight,  both  of  which  attach- 
ments you  have  done  me  the  honour  to  return. 
The  longer  I  am  acquainted  with  you,  the  more 
innate  amiableness  and  worth  I  discover  in  you. 
You  have  suffered  a  loss,  I  confess,  for  my  sake ; 
but  if  the  firmest,  steadiest,  warmest  friendship; 
if  every  endeavour  to  be  worthy  of  your  friend- 
ship; if  a  love,  strong  as  the  ties  of  nature  and 
<holy  as  the  duties  of  religion;  if  all  these  can 
make  anything  like  a  compensation  for  the  evil 
I  have  occasioned  you;  if  they  be  worth  your 
acceptance,  or  can  in  the  least  add  to  your  enjoy- 
ments,— so  help  Sylvander,  ye  Powers  above,  in 
his  hour  of  need,  as  he  freely  gives  all  these  to 
Clarinda ! 

I  esteem  you,  I  love  you,  as  a  friend ;  I  admire 
you,  I  love  you  as  a  woman,  beyond  any  one  in 

—157— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


all  the  circle  of  creation.  I  know  I  shall  con- 
tinue to  esteem  you,  to  love  you,  to  pray  for  you, 
nay,  to  pray  for  myself  for  your  sake. 

Expect  me  at  eight ;  and  believe  me  to  be  ever, 
my  dearest  Madam,  yours  most  entirely, 

SYLVANDER. 


—158— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 


"On  reason  build  resolve, 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man." 

or,  as  the  same  author  finely  says  in  another  place, 

"Let  thy  soul  spring  up, 

And  lay  strong  hold  for  help  on  Him  that  made 
thee." 

I  am  yours,  Clarinda,  for  life.  Never  be  dis- 
couraged at  all  this.  Look  forward:  in  a  few 
weeks  I  shall  be  somewhere  or  other,  out  of  the 
possibility  of  seeing  you:  till  then,  I  shall  write 
you  often  but  visit  you  seldom.  Your  fame, 
your  welfare,  your  happiness,  are  dearer  to  me. 
than  any  gratification  whatever.  Be  comforted, 
my  love!  the  present  moment  is  the  worst;  the 
lenient  hand  of  time  is  daily  and  hourly  either 
lightening  the  burden,  or  making  us  insensible 
to  the  weight.  None  of  these  friends — I  mean 

Mr.  and  the  other  gentleman — can  hurt 

your  worldly  support :  and  of  their  friendship  in  a 
little  time  you  will  learn  to  be  easy,  and.  by  and 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


by  to  be  happy  without  it.  A  decent  means  of 
livelihood  in  the  world,  an  approving  God,  a 
peaceful  conscience,  and  one  firm  trusty  friend 
— can  anybody  that  has  these  be  said  to  be  un- 
happy? These  are  yours. 

To-morrow  evening  I  shall  be  with  you  about 
eight,  probably  for  the  last  time  till  I  return  to 
Edinburgh.  In  the  meantime,  should  any  of 
these  two  unlucky  friends  question  you  respect- 
ing me,  whether  I  am  the  man,  I  do  not  think 
they  are  entitled  to  any  information.  As  to 
their  jealousy  and  spying,  I  despise  them. 

Adieu,  my  dearest  Madam! 

SYLVANDER. 


—160— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLAEINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Glasgow,  Monday  Evening,  Nine  O'clock. 

The  attraction  of  Love,  I  find,  is  in  an  inverse 
proportion  to  the  attraction  of  the  Newtonian 
philosophy.  In  the  system  of  Sir  Isaac,  the 
nearer  objects  were  to  one  another,  the  stronger 
was  the  attractive  force.  In  my  system,  every 
milestone  that  marked  my  progress  from  Cla- 
rinda,  awakened  a  keener  pang  of  attachment 
to  her.  How  do  you  feel,  my  love?  Is  your 
heart  ill  at  ease?  I  fear  it.  God  forbid  that 
these  persecutors  should  harass  that  peace  which 
is  more  precious  to  me  than  my  own.  Be  as- 
sured I  shall  ever  think  on  you,  muse  on  you, 
and,  in  my  moments  of  devotion,  pray  for  you. 
The  hour  that  you  are  not  in  my  thoughts,  "be 
that  hour  darkness;  let  the  shadows  of  death 
cover  it;  let  it  not  be  numbered  in  the  hours  of 
the  day!" 

"When  I  forget  the  darling  theme, 
Be  my  tongue  mute !  my  fancy  paint  no  more ! 
And,  dead  to  joy,  forget  my  heart  to  beat!" 

I  have  just  met  with  my  old  friend,  the  ship  Cap- 
tain— guess  my  pleasure ;  to  meet  you  could  alone 

—161— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


have  given  me  more.  My  brother  William  too, 
the  young  saddler,  has  come  to  Glasgow  to  meet 
me ;  and  here  are  we  three  spending  the  evening. 

I  arrived  here  too  late  to  write  by  post;  but 
I'll  wrap  half  a  dozen  blank  sheets  of  paper  to- 
gether, and  send  it  by  the  Fly,  under  the  name 
of  a  parcel.  You  shall  hear  from  me  next  post 
town.  I  would  write  you  a  longer  letter  but  for 
the  present  circumstances  of  my  friend. 

Adieu,  my  Clarinda!  I  am  just  going  to  pro- 
pose your  health  by  way  of  grace-drink. 

SYLVANDER. 


—162— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Edinburgh,  Tuesday  Evening,  Nine  o'clock. 

Mr. has  just  left  me,  after  half  an  hour's 

most  pathetic  conversation.  I  told  him  of  the  us- 
age I  had  met  with  on  Sunday  night,  which  he 
condemned  much,  as  unmanly  and  ungenerous.  I 
expressed  my  thanks  for  his  call ;  but  he  told  me, 
it  "was  merely  to  hide  the  change  in  his  friend- 
ship from  the  world."  Think  how  I  was  morti- 
fied: I  was  indeed;  and  affected  so,  as  hardly  to 
restrain  tears.  He  did  not  name  you ;  but  spoke 
in  terms  that  showed  plainly  he  knew.  Would 
to  God  he  knew  my  Sylvander  as  I  do!  then 
might  I  hope  to  retain  his  friendship  still;  but 
I  have  made  my  choice,  and  you  alone  can  ever 
make  me  repent  it.  Yet,  while  I  live,  I  must 
regret  the  loss  of  such  a  man's  friendship.  My 
dear,  generous  friend  of  my  soul  does  so  too.  I 
love  him  for  it!  Yesterday  I  thought  of  you, 
and  went  over  to  Miss  Nimmo  to  have  the  luxury 
of  talking  of  you.  She  was  most  kind;  and 
praised  you  more  than  ever,  as  a  man  of  worth, 
honour,  genius.  Oh,  how  I  could  have  listened 
to  her  for  ever!  She  says,  she  is  afraid  our  at- 
tachment will  be  lasting.  I  stayed  tea,  was 
asked  kindly,  and  did  not  choose  to  refuse,  as 

—163— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  stayed  last  time  when  you  were  of  the  party. 
I  wish  you  were  here  to-night  to  comfort  me.  I 
feel  hurt  and  depressed;  but  to-morrow  I  hope 
for  a  cordial  from  your  dear  hand!  I  must  bid 
you  good  night.  Remember  your  Clarinda. 
Every  blessing  be  yours! 

Your  letter  this  moment.  Why  did  you  write 
before  to-day?  Thank  you  for  it.  I  figure 
your  heartfelt  enjoyment  last  night.  Oh,  to 
have  been  of  the  party!  Where  was  it?  I'd 
like  to  know  the  very  spot.  My  head  aches  so  I 
can't  write  more;  but  I  have  kissed  your  dear 
lines  over  and  over.  Adieu!  I'll  finish  this  to- 
morrow. 

YOUR  CLARINDA. 

Wednesday,  Eleven. 

Mary  was  at  my  bedside  by  eight  this  morning. 
We  had  much  chat  about  you.  She  is  an  affec- 
tionate, faithful  soul.  She  tells  me  her  defence 
of  you  was  so  warm,  in  a  large  company  where 
you  were  blamed  for  some  trivial  affair,  that  she 
left  them  impressed  with  the  idea  of  her  being 
in  love.  She  laughs,  and  says,  "  'Tis  pity  to  have 
the  skaith,  and  nothing  for  her  pains." 

My  spirits  are  greatly  better  to-day.  I  am  a 
little  anxious  about  Willie :  his  leg  is  to  be  lanced 

—164— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


this  day,  and  I  shall  be  fluttered  till  the  opera- 
tion is  fairly  over.  Mr.  Wood  thinks  he  will 
soon  get  well,  when  the  matter  lodged  in  it  is 
discussed.  God  grant  it!  Oh,  how  can  I  ever 
be  ungrateful  to  that  good  Providence,  who  has 
blest  me  with  so  many  undeserved  mercies,  and 
saved  me  often  from  the  ruin  I  courted!  The 
heart  that  feels  its  continual  dependence  on  the 
Almighty,  is  bound  to  keep  His  laws  by  a  tie 
stronger  and  tenderer  than  any  human  obliga- 
tion. The  feeling  of  Honour  is  a  noble  and  pow- 
erful one;  but  can  we  be  honourable  to  a  fellow- 
creature,  and  basely  unmindful  of  our  Bountiful 
Benefactor,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  life 
and  all  its  blessings;  and  even  for  those  very 
distinguishing  qualities,  Honour,  Genius,  and 
Benevolence? 

I  am  sure  you  enter  into  these  ideas;  did  you 
think  with  me  in  all  points  I  should  be  too  happy ; 
but  I'll  be  silent.  I  may  wish  and  pray,  but  you 
shall  never  again  accuse  me  of  presumption.  My 
dear,  I  write  you  this  to  Mauchline,  to  be  waiting 
you.  I  hope,  nay  I  am  sure,  'twill  be  welcome. 

You  are  an  extravagant  prodigal  in  more  es- 
sential things  than  affection.  To-day's  post 
would  have  brought  me  yours  and  saved  you  six- 
pence. However,  it  pleased  me  to  know  that, 

—165— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


though  absent  in  body,  "y°u  were  present  with 
me  in  spirit." 

Do  you  know  a  Miss  Nelly  Hamilton  in  Ayr, 
daughter  to  a  Captain  John  H.  of  the  Excise 
cutter?  I  stayed  with  her  at  Kailzie,  and  love 
her.  She  is  a  dear,  amiable,  romantic  girl.  I 
wish  much  to  write  to  her,  and  will  enclose  it  for 
you  to  deliver,  personally,  if  agreeable.  She 
raved  about  your  poems  in  summer,  and  wished 
to  be  acquainted.  Let  me  know  if  you  have  any 
objections.  She  is  an  intimate  of  Miss  Nimmo, 
too.  I  think  the  streets  look  deserted-like  since 
Monday;  and  there's  a  certain  insipidity  in  good 
kind  of  folks  I  once  enjoyed  not  a  little.  You, 
who  are  a  casuist,  explain  these  deep  enigmas. 
Miss  Wardrobe  supped  here  on  Monday.  She 
once  named  you,  which  kept  me  from  falling 
asleep.  I  drank  your  health  in  a  glass  of  ale — 
as  the  lasses  do  at  Hallowe'en — "in  to  mysel'." 

Happy  Sylvander !  to  meet  with  the  dear  char- 
ities of  brother,  sister,  parent !  whilst  I  have  none 
of  these  and  belong  to  nobody.  Yes,  I  have  my 
children,  and  my  Heart's  friend,  Sylvander — the 
only  one  I  have  ever  found  capable  of  that  name- 
less, delicate  attachment,  which  none  but  noble, 
romantic  minds  can  comprehend.  I  envy  you 
the  Captain's  society.  Don't  tell  him  of  the 

—166— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


"Iron  Chain,"  lest  he  call  us  both  fools.  I  saw 
the  happy  trio  in  my  mind's  eye.  So  absence 
increases  your  fondness;  'tis  ever  so  in  great 
souls.  Let  the  poor  worldlings  enjoy  (possess, 
I  mean,  for  they  can't  enjoy)  their  golden  dish; 
we  have  each  of  us  an  estate,  derived  from  the 
Father  of  the  Universe,  into  whose  hands  I  trust 
we'll  return  it,  cultivated  so  as  to  prove  an  inex- 
haustible treasure  through  the  endless  ages  of 
eternity ! 

'Afternoon. 

Mr.  Wood  has  not  come,  so  the  affair  is  not 
over.  I  hesitate  about  sending  this  till  I  hear 
further;  but  I  think  you  said  you'd  be  at  M.  on 
Thursday:  at  any  rate  you'll  get  this  on  your 
arrival. 

Farewell!  may  you  ever  abide  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Almighty.  Yours, 

CLAEINDA. 


—167— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Kilmarnock,  Friday. 

I  wrote  you,  my  dear  Madam,  the  moment  I 
alighted  in  Glasgow.  Since  then  I  have  not  had 
opportunity:  for  in  Paisley,  where  I  arrive  next 
day,  my  worthy,  wise  friend  Mr.  Pattison  did 
not  allow  me  a  moment's  respite.  I  was  there 
ten  hours;  during  which  time  I  was  introduced 
to  nine  men  worth  six  thousands ;  five  men  worth 
ten  thousands;  his  brother,  richly  worth  twenty 
thousands;  and  a  young  weaver  who  will  have 
thirty  thousands  good  when  his  father,  who  has 
no  more  children  than  the  said  weaver,  and  a 
Whig-kirk,  dies.  Mr.  P.  was  bred  a  zealous  anti- 
burgher;  but  during  his  widowerhood,  he  has 
found  their  strictness  incompatible  with  certain 
compromises  he  is  often  obliged  to  make  with  the 
Powers  of  darkness — the  devil,  the  world,  and 
the  flesh:  so  he,  good,  merciful  man!  talked  pri- 
vately to  me  of  the  absurdity  of  eternal  torments ; 
the  liberality  of  sentiment  in  indulging  the  hon- 
est instincts  of  nature ;  the  mysteries  of  concubin- 
age, &c.  He  has  a  son,  however,  that,  at  sixteen, 
has  repeatedly  minted  at  certain  privileges,  only 
proper  for  staid,  sober  men,  who  can  use  the  good 
things  of  this  life  without  abusing  them;  but  the 

—168— 


SYLVANDEB   AND    CLARINDA 


father's  parental  vigilance  has  hitherto  hedged 
him  in,  amid  a  corrupt  and  evil  world. 

His  only  daughter,  who,  "if  the  beast  be  to  the 
fore,  and  the  branks  bide  hale,"  will  have  seven 
thousand  pounds  when  her  old  father  steps  into 
the  dark  Factory-office  of  Eternity  with  his  well- 
thummed  web  of  life,  has  put  him  again  and  again 
in  a  commendable  fit  of  indignation,  by  request- 
ing a  harpsichord.  "O!  these  boarding-schools!" 
exclaims  my  prudent  friend.  "She  was  a  good 
spinner  and  sewer,  till  I  was  advised  by  her 
foes  and  mine  to  give  her  a  year  of  Edinburgh !" 

After  two  bottles  more,  my  much-respected 
friend  opened  up  to  me  a  project,  a  legitimate 
child  of  Wisdom  and  Good  Sense;  'twas  no  less 
than  a  long  thought-on  and  deeply-matured  de- 
sign, to  marry  a  girl,  fully  as  elegant  in  her  form 
as  the  famous  priestess  whom  Saul  consulted  in 
his  last  hours,  and  who  had  been  second  maid  of 
honour  to  his  deceased  wife.  This,  you  may  be 
sure,  I  highly  applauded,  so  I  hope  for  a  pair 
of  gloves  by  and  by.  I  spent  the  two  bypast 
days  at  Dunlop  house  with  that  worthy  family 
to  whom  I  was  deeply  indebted  early  in  my  poetic 
career;  and  in  about  two  hours  I  shall  present 
your  "twa  wee  sarkies"  to  the  little  fellow.  My 
dearest  Clarinda,  you  are  ever  present  with  me; 

--169-- 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


and  these  hours,  that  drawl  by  among  the  fools 
and  rascals  of  this  world,  are  only  supportable  in 
the  idea  that  they  are  the  forerunners  of  that 
happy  hour,  that  ushers  me  to  "the  mistress  of 
my  soul."  Next  week  I  shall  visit  Dumfries, 
and  next  again  return  to  Edinburgh.  My  let- 
ters in  these  hurrying,  dissipated  hours  will  be 
heavy  trash;  but  you  know  the  writer. 
God  bless  you. 

SYLVANDER. 


—170— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Edinburgh,,  Friday  Evening. 

I  wish  you  had  given  me  a  hint,  my  dear  Syl- 
vander,  that  you  were  to  write  to  me  only  once 
in  a  week.  Yesterday  I  looked  for  a  letter;  to- 
day, never  doubted  it;  but  both  days  have  ter- 
minated in  disappointment.  A  thousand  con- 
jectures have  conspired  to  make  me  most  un- 
happy. Often  have  I  suffered  much  disquiet 
from  forming  the  idea  of  such  an  attention,  on 
such  and  such  an  occasion,  and  experienced  quite 
the  reverse.  But  in  you,  and  you  alone,  I  have 
ever  found  my  highest  demands  of  kindness  ac- 
complished; nay,  even  my  fondest  wishes,  not 
gratified  only,  but  anticipated!  To  what,  then, 
can  I  attribute  your  not  writing  me  one  line  since 
Monday? 

God  forbid  that  your  nervous  ailment  has  in- 
capacitated you  for  that  office,  from  which  you 
derived  pleasure  singly;  as  well  as  that  most  deli- 
cate of  all  enjoyments,  pleasure  reflected.  To- 
morrow I  shall  hope  to  hear  from  you.  Hope, 
blessed  hope,  thou  balm  of  every  woe,  possess  and 
fill  my  bosom  with  thy  benign  influence. 

I  have  been  solitary  since  the  tender  farewell 
till  to-night.  I  was  solicited  to  go  to  Dr. 

—171— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


Moyes's  lecture  with  Miss  Craig  and  a  gallant  of 
hers,  a  student;  one  of  the  many  stupid  animals, 
knowing  only  in  the  Science  of  Puppyism,  "or 
the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane."  With  what 
sovereign  contempt  did  I  compare  his  trite,  in- 
sipid frivolity  with  the  intelligent,  manly  observa- 
tion which  ever  marks  the  conversation  of  Syl- 
vander.  He  is  a  glorious  piece  of  divine  work- 
manship, Dr.  Moyes.  The  subject  to-night  was 
the  origin  of  minerals,  springs,  lakes,  and  the 
ocean.  Many  parts  were  far  beyond  my  weak 
comprehension,  and  indeed  that  of  most  women. 
What  I  understood  delighted  me,  and  altogether 
raised  my  thoughts  to  the  infinite  wisdom  and 
boundless  goodness  of  the  Deity.  The  man  him- 
self marks  both.  Presented  with  a  universal 
blank  of  Nature's  works,*  his  mind  appears  to 
be  illuminated  with  Celestial  light.  He  con- 
cluded with  some  lines  of  the  Essay  on  Man:  "All 
are  but  parts  of  one  stupendous  whole,"  &c.;  a 
passage  I  have  often  read  with  sublime  pleasure. 
Miss  Burnet  sat  just  behind  me.  What  an 
angelic  girl!  I  stared  at  her,  never  having  seen 
her  so  near.  I  remembered  you  talking  of  her, 
&c.  What  felicity  to  witness  her  "Softly  speak 
and  sweetly  smile!"  How  could  you  celebrate 

*  Dr.  Moyes  was  blind. 

—172— 


SYLVANDKR   AND    CLARINDA 


any  other  Clarinda!  Oh,  I  would  have  adored 
you,  as  Pope  of  exquisite  taste  and  refinement, 
had  you  loved,  sighed,  and  written  upon  her  for 
ever!  breathing  your  passion  only  to  the  woods 
and  streams.  But  Poets,  I  find,  are  not  quite 
incorporeal,  more  than  others.  My  dear  Syl- 
vander,  to  be  serious,  I  really  wonder  you  ever 
admired  Clarinda,  after  beholding  Miss  Bur- 
net's  superior  charms.  If  I  don't  hear  to-mor- 
row, I  shall  form  dreadful  reasons.  God  forbid! 
Bishop  Geddes  was  within  a  foot  of  me,  too. 
What  field  for  contemplation — both! 
Good  night.  God  bless  you,  prays 

CLARINDA. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

This  letter  was  not  found  among  Clarinda's 
papers,  but  was  published  in  the  BanffsMre 
Journal,  "as  printed  from  the  original,"  which 
was  described  as  much  mutilated.  Its  authen- 
ticity would  seem  to  be  confirmed  by  the  allu- 
sions in  her  reply. 

Probably  written  the  day  of  his  arrival  at 
Mossgiel,  Feb.  23. 

I  have  just  now,  my  ever  dear  Madam,  deliv- 
ered your  kind  present  to  my  sweet  little  Bob- 
bie, whom  I  find  a  very  fine  fellow.  Your  letter 
was  waiting  me.  Your  interview  with  Mr. 
Kemp  opens  a  wound,  ill-closed,  in  my  breast; 
not  that  I  think  his  friendship  is  of  so  much  con- 
sequence to  you,  but  because  you  set  such  a  value 
on  it. 

Now  for  a  little  news  that  will  please  you.  I, 
this  morning,  as  I  came  home,  called  for  a  certain 
woman.  I  am  disgusted  with  her — I  cannot  en- 
dure her!  I,  while  my  heart  smote  me  for  the 
profanity,  tried  to  compare  her  with  my  Cla- 
rinda:  'twas  setting  the  expiring  glimmer  of  a 
farthing  taper  beside  the  cloudless  glory  of  the 
meridian  sun.  Here  was  tasteless  insipidity, 

—174— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


vulgarity  of  soul,  and  mercenary  fawning;  there 
polished  good  sense,  Heaven-born  genius,  and 
the  most  generous,  the  most  delicate,  the  most 
tender  passion.  I  have  done  with  her,  and  she 
with  me. 

I  set  off  to-morrow  for  Dumfries-shire.  'Tis. 
merely  out  of  compliment  to  Mr.  Miller;  for  I 
know  the  Indies  must  be  my  lot.  I  will  write 
you  from  Dumfries,  if  these  horrid  postages 
don't  frighten  me. 

"Whatever  place,  whatever  land  I  see, 
My  heart,  untravell'd,  fondly  turns  to  thee; 
Still  to  'Clarinda'  turns  with  ceaseless  pain, 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthen'd  chain." 

I  just  stay  to  write  you  a  few  lines,  before  I 
go  to  call  on  my  friend,  Mr.  Gavin  Hamilton.  I 
hate  myself  as  an  unworthy  sinner  because  these 
interviews  of  old  dear  friends  make  me,  for  half 
a  moment,  almost  forget  Clarinda. 

Remember  to-morrow  evening,  at  eight  o'clock, 
I  shall  be  with  the  Father  of  Mercies,  at  that  hour 
on  your  own  account.  Farewell!  If  the  post 
goes  not  to-night,  I'll  finish  the  other  page  to- 
morrow morning. 

SYLVANDER. 

P.  S. — Remember. 

—175— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Cumnock,  2d  March,  1788. 

I  hope,  and  am  certain,  that  my  generous 
Clarinda  will  not  think  my  silence,  for  now  a  long 
week,  has  been  in  any  degree  owing  to  my  for- 
getfulness.  I  have  been  tossed  about  through 
the  country  ever  since  I  wrote  you,  and  am  here 
returning  from  Dumfries-shire,  at  an  inn,  the 
post-office  of  the  place,  with  just  so  long  time 
as  my  horse  eats  his  corn,  to  write  you.  I  have 
been  hurried  with  business  and  dissipation, 
almost  equal  to  the  insidious  decree  of  the  Per- 
sian monarch's  mandate,  when  he  forbade  asking 
petition  of  God  or  man  for  forty  days.  Had  the 
venerable  prophet  been  as  throng  as  I,  he  had  not 
broken  the  decree;  at  least  not  thrice  a-day. 

I  am  thinking  my  farming  scheme  will  yet 
hold.  A  worthy  intelligent  farmer,  my  father's 
friend  and  my  own,  has  been  with  me  on  the  spot : 
he  thinks  the  bargain  practicable.  I  am  myself, 
on  a  more  serious  review  of  the  lands,  much  bet- 
ter pleased  with  them.  I  won't  mention  this  in 
writing  to  anybody  but  you  and  Mr.  Ainslie. 
Don't  accuse  me  of  being  fickle;  I  have  the  two 
plans  of  life  before  me,  and  I  wish  to  adopt  the 
one  most  likely  to  procure  me  independence. 

—176— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  next  week.  I  long  to 
see  you;  your  image  is  omnipresent  to  me;  nay, 
I  am  convinced  I  would  soon  idolatrise  it  most 
seriously;  so  much  do  absence  and  memory  im- 
prove the  medium  through  which  one  sees  the 
much-loved  object.  To-night,  at  the  sacred  hour 
of  eight,  I  expect  to  meet  you,  at  the  Throne  of 
Grace.  I  hope,  as  I  go  home  to-night,  to  find  a 
letter  from  you  at  the  post-office  in  Mauchline; 
I  have  just  once  seen  that  dear  hand  since  I  left 
Edinburgh — a  letter,  indeed,  which  much  affect- 
ed me.  Tell  me,  first  of  womankind,  will  my 
warmest  attachment,  my  sincerest  friendship,  my 
correspondence, — will  they  be  any  compensation 
for  the  sacrifices  you  make  for  my  sake?  If  they 
will,  they  are  yours.  If  I  settle  on  the  farm  I 
propose,  I  am  just  a  day  and  a  half's  ride  from 
Edinburgh.  We  shall  meet;  don't  you  say, 
"Perhaps,  too  often!" 

Farewell,  my  fair,  my  charming  Poetess  I 
May  all  good  things  ever  attend  you. 

I  am  ever,  my  dearest  Madam, 

Yours, 
SYLVANDER. 

In  a  letter  to  Robert  Ainslie,  written  March 
3,  Burns  says:  "I  got  a  letter  from  Clarinda 

—177— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


yesterday,  and  she  tells  me  she  has  got  no  letter 
of  mine  but  one.  Tell  her  that  I  wrote  to  her 
from  Glasgow,  from  Kilmarnock,  from  Maueh- 
line,  and  yesterday  from  Cumnock  as  I  returned 
from  Dumfries.  Indeed,  she  is  the  only  person 
in  Edinburgh  I  have  written  to  till  this  day. 
How  are  your  soul  and  body  putting  up? — a 
little  like  man  and  wife,  I  suppose." 


-178— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Edinburgh,  March  5,  1788. 

I  received  yours  from  Cumnock  about  an  hour 
ago;  and  to  show  you  my  good-nature,  sit  down 
to  write  to  you  immediately.  I  fear,  Sylvandera 
you  overvalue  my  generosity;  for,  believe  me,  it 
will  be  some  time  ere  I  can  cordially  forgive  you 
the  pain  your  silence  has  caused  me!  Did  you 
ever  feel  that  sickness  of  heart  which  arises  from 
hope  deferred?  That,  the  crudest  of  pains,  you 
have  inflicted  on  me  for  eight  days  by-past.  I 
hope  I  can  make  every  reasonable  allowance  for 
the  hurry  of  business  and  dissipation.  Yet,  had 
I  been  ever  so  engrossed,  I  should  have  found 
one  hour  out  of  the  twenty-four  to  write  you. 
No  more  of  it:  I  accept  of  your  apologies;  but 
am  hurt  that  any  should  have  been  necessary  be- 
tween us  on  such  a  tender  occasion. 

I  am  happy  that  the  farming  scheme  promises 
so  well.  There's  no  fickleness,  my  dear  sir,  in 
changing  for  the  better.  I  never  liked  the  Ex- 
cise for  you;  and  feel  a  sensible  pleasure  in  the 
hope  of  your  becoming  a  sober,  industrious 
farmer.  My  prayers,  in  this  affair,  are  heard, 
I  hope,  so  far :  may  they  be  answered  completely ! 
The  distance  is  the  only  thing  I  regret;  but, 

—179— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


whatever  tends  to  your  welfare,  overweighs  all 
other  considerations.  I  hope  ere  then  to  grow 
wiser,  and  to  lie  easy  under  weeks'  silence.  I 
had  begun  to  think  that  you  had  fully  experi- 
enced the  truth  of  Sir  Isaac's  philosophy. 

I  have  been  under  unspeakable  obligations  to 
your  friend,  Mr.  Ainslie.  I  had  not  a  mortal  to 
whom  I  could  speak  of  your  name  but  him.  He 
has  called  often;  and,  by  sympathy,  not  a  little 
alleviated  my  anxiety.  I  tremble  lest  you  should 
have  devolved,  what  you  used  to  term  your 
"folly,"  upon  Clarinda:  more's  the  pity.  'Tis 
never  graceful  but  on  the  male  side;  but  I  shall 
learn  more  wisdom  in  future.  Example  has 
often  good  effects. 

I  got  both  your  letters  from  Kilmarnock  and 
Mauchline,  and  would,  perhaps,  have  written  to 
you  unbidden,  had  I  known  anything  of  the 
geography  of  the  country;  but  I  knew  not 
whether  you  would  return  by  Mauchline  or  not, 
nor  could  Mr.  Ainslie  inform  me.  I  have  met 
with  several  little  rubs,  that  hurt  me  the  more 
that  I  had  not  a  bosom  to  pour  them  into — 

"On  some  fond  breast  the  feeling  soul  relies." 

Mary  I  have  not  once  set  eyes  on,  since  I  wrote 
to  you.     Oh,  that  I  should  be  formed  susceptible 
--180— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


of  kindness,  never,  never  to  be  fully,  or  at  least 
habitually,  returned!  "Trim,"  (said  my  Uncle 
Toby)  "I  wish,  Trim,  I  were  dead." 

Mr.  Ainslie  called  just  now  to  tell  me  he  had 
heard  from  you.  You  would  see,  by  my  last, 
how  anxious  I  was,  even  then,  to  hear  from  you. 
'Tis  the  first  time  I  ever  had  reason  to  be  so; 
I  hope  'twill  be  the  last.  My  thoughts  were 
yours  both  Sunday  nights  at  eight.  Why  should 
my  letter  have  affected  you?  You  know  I 
count  all  things  (Heavenexcepted)  but  loss,  that 
I  may  win  and  keep  you.  I  supped  at  Mr. 
Kemp's  on  Friday.  Had  you  been  an  invisible 
spectator  with  what  perfect  ease  I  acquitted  my- 
self, you  would  have  been  pleased,  highly  pleased, 
with  me. 

Interrupted  by  a  visit  from  Miss  R .  She 

was  inquiring  kindly  for  you.  I  delivered  your 
compliments  to  her.  She  means  (as  you  once 
said )  all  the  kindness  in  the  world,  but  she  wants 
that  "finer  chord."  Ah!  Sylvander,  happy,  in 
my  mind,  are  they  who  are  void  of  it.  Alas!  it 
too  often  thrills  with  anguish. 

I  hope  you  have  not  forgotten  to  kiss  the  little 
cherub  for  me.  Give  him  fifty,  and  think  Cla- 
rinda  blessing  him  all  the  while.  I  pity  his 
mother  sincerely,  and  wish  a  certain  affair  hap- 

—181— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


pily  over.  My  Willie  is  in  good  health,  except 
his  leg,  which  confines  him  close  since  it  was 
opened;  and  Mr.  Wood  says  it  will  be  a  very 
tedious  affair.  He  has  prescribed  sea-bathing  as 
soon  as  the  season  admits.  I  never  see  Miss 
Nimmo.  Her  indifference  wounds  me;  but  all 
these  things  make  me  fly  to  the  Father  of  Mer- 
cies, who  is  the  inexhaustible  Fountain  of  all 
kindness.  How  could  you  ever  mention  "pos- 
tages"? I  counted  on  a  crown  at  least;  and  have 
only  spent  one  poor  shilling.  If  I  had  but  a 
shilling  in  the  world,  you  should  have  sixpence; 
nay,  eightpence,  if  I  could  contrive  to  live  on  a 
groat.  I  am  avaricious  only  in  your  letters; 
you  are  so,  indeed.  Farewell.  Yours, 

CLARINDA. 


—182— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  own  myself  guilty,  Clarinda:  I  should  have 
written  you  last  week.  But  when  you  recollect, 
my  dearest  Madam,  that  yours  of  this  night's 
post  is  only  the  third  I  have  from  you,  and  that 
this  is  the  fifth  or  sixth  I  have  sent  to  you,  you 
will  not  reproach  me,  with  a  good  grace,  for  un- 
kindness.  I  have  always  some  kind  of  idea,  not 
to  sit  down  to  write  a  letter,  except  I  have  time, 
and  possession  of  my  faculties,  so  as  to  do  some 
justice  to  my  letter;  which  at  present  is  rarely 
my  situation.  For  instance,  yesterday  I  dined 
at  a  friend's  at  some  distance:  the  savage  hospi- 
tality of  this  country  spent  me  the  most  part 
of  the  night  over  the  nauseous  potion  in  the  bowl. 
This  day — sick — headache — low  spirits — miser- 
able— fasting,  except  for  a  draught  of  water  or 
small  beer.  Now  eight  o'clock  at  night;  only 
able  to  crawl  ten  minutes'  walk  into  Mauchline, 
to  wait  the  post  in  the  pleasurable  hope  of  hear- 
ing from  the  mistress  of  my  soul. 

But  truce  with  all  this.  When  I  sit  down  to 
write  to  you,  all  is  happiness  and  peace.  A  hun- 
dred times  a-day  do  I  figure  you  before  your 
taper — your  book  or  work  laid  aside  as  I  get 
within  the  room.  How  happy  have  I  been!  and 

—183— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


how  little  of  that  scantling  portion  of  time,  called 
the  life  of  man,  is  sacred  to  happiness,  much  less 
transport. 

I  could  moralise  to-night,  like  a  death's-head. 

"O  what  is  life,  that  thoughtless  wish  of  all! 
A  drop  of  honey  in  a  draught  of  gall." 

Nothing  astonishes  me  more,  when  a  little  sick- 
ness clogs  the  wheels  of  life,  than  the  thoughtless 
career  we  run  in  the  hour  of  health.  "None 
saith,  where  is  God,  my  Maker,  that  giveth  songs 
in  the  night:  who  teacheth  us  more  knowledge 
than  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and  more  under- 
standing than  the  fowls  of  the  air?" 

Give  me,  my  Maker,  to  remember  thee !  Give 
me,  to  act  up  to  the  dignity  of  my  nature !  Give 
me,  to  feel  "another's  woe";  and  continue  with 
me  that  dear-loved  friend  that  feels  with  mine! 

The  dignifying  and  dignified  consciousness 
of  an  honest  man,  and  the  well-grounded  trust 
in  approving  Heaven,  are  two  most  substantial 
foundations  of  happiness.  .  .  . 

I  could  not  have  written  a  page  to  any  mortal, 
except  yourself.  I'll  write  you  by  Sunday's 
post.  Adieu.  Good  night. 

SYLVANDER. 

—184— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Mossgiel,  7th  March,  1788. 

Clarinda,  I  have  been  so  stung  with  your  re- 
proach for  unkindness, — a  sin  so  unlike  me,  a  sin 
I  detest  more  than  a  breach  of  the  whole  deca- 
logue, fifth,  sixth,  seventh,  and  ninth  articles  ex- 
cepted, — that  I  believe  I  shall  not  rest  in  my 
grave  about  it,  if  I  die  before  I  see  you.  You 
have  often  allowed  me  the  head  to  judge,  and  the 
heart  to  feel  the  influence  of  female  excellence: 
was  it  not  blasphemy,  then,  against  your  own 
charms,  and  against  my  feelings,  to  suppose  that 
a  short  fortnight  could  abate  my  passion? 

You,  my  love,  may  have  your  cares  and  anx- 
ieties to  disturb  you;  but  they  are  the  usual 
occurrences  of  life.  Your  future  views  are  fixed, 
and  your  mind  in  a  settled  routine.  Could  not 
you,  my  ever  dearest  Madam,  make  a  little  allow- 
ance for  a  man,  after  long  absence,  paying  a 
short  visit  to  a  country  full  of  friends,  relations, 
and  early  intimates?  Cannot  you  guess,  my 
Clarinda,  what  thoughts,  what  cares,  what  anx- 
ious forebodings,  hopes  and  fears,  must  crowd 
the  breast  of  the  man  of  keen  sensibility,  when 
no  less  is  on  the  tapis  than  his  aim,  his  employ- 
ment, his  very  existence  through  future  life? 

^-185— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


To  be  overtopped  in  anything  else,  I  can  bear ; 
but  in  the  tests  of  generous  love,  I  defy  all  man- 
kind !  not  even  to  the  tender,  the  fond,  the  loving 
Clarinda — she  whose  strength  of  attachment, 
whose  melting  soul,  may  vie  with  Eloisa  and 
Sappho,  not  even  she  can  overpay  the  affection 
she  owes  me! 

Now  that,  not  my  apology,  but  my  defence  is 
made,  I  feel  my  soul  respire  more  easily.  I 
know  you  will  go  along  with  me  in  my  justifica- 
tion :  would  to  Heaven  you  could  in  my  adoption, 
too!  I  mean  an  adoption  beneath  the  stars — an 
adoption  where  I  might  revel  in  the  immediate 
beams  of 

"She  the  bright  sun  of  all  her  sex." 

I  would  not  have  you,  my  dear  Madam,  so 
much  hurt  at  Miss  N—  -'s  coldness.  'Tis  placing 
yourself  below  her,  an  honour  she  by  no  means 
deserves.  We  ought,  when  we  wish  to  be  econ- 
omists in  happiness, — we  ought,  in  the  first  place, 
to  fix  the  standard  of  our  own  character;  and 
when,  on  full  examination,  we  know  where  we 
stand,  and  how  much  ground  we  occupy,  let  us 
contend  for  it  as  property;  and  those  who  seem 
to  doubt,  or  deny  us  what  is  justly  ours,  let  us 
either  pity  their  prejudices,  or  despise  their 

—186— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


judgment.  I  know,  my  dear,  you  will  say,  this 
is  self-conceit;  but  I  call  it  self-knowledge:  the 
one  is  the  overweening  opinion  of  a  fool,  who 
fancies  himself  to  be,  what  he  wishes  himself  to 
be  thought;  the  other  is  the  honest  justice  that  a 
man  of  sense,  who  has  thoroughly  examined  the 
subject,  owes  to  himself.  Without  this  standard, 
this  column  in  our  own  mind,  we  are  perpetually 
at  the  mercy  of  the  petulance,  the  mistakes,  the 
prejudices,  nay,  the  very  weakness  and  wicked- 
ness of  our  fellow-creatures. 

I  urge  this,  my  dear,  both  to  confirm  myself  in 
the  doctrine,  which,  I  assure  you,  I  sometimes 
need,  and  because  I  know,  that  this  causes  you 

often  much  disquiet.     To  return  to  Miss  N . 

She  is,  most  certainly,  a  worthy  soul;  and 
equalled  by  very  very  few  in  goodness  of  heart. 
But  can  she  boast  more  goodness  of  heart  than 
Clarinda?  Not  even  prejudice  will  dare  to  say 
so:  for  penetration  and  discernment,  Clarinda 

sees  far  beyond  her.     To  wit,  Miss  N" dare 

make  no  pretence:  to  Clarinda's  wit,  scarce  any 
of  her  sex  dare  make  pretence.  Personal 
charms,  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  run  the  parallel : 

and  for  conduct  in  life,  Miss  N was  never 

called  out,  either  much  to  do,  or  to  suffer.  Cla- 
rinda has  been  both ;  and  has  performed  her  part, 

—187— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


where  Miss  N would  have  sunk  at  the  bare 

idea. 

Away,  then,  with  these  disquietudes!  Let  us 
pray  with  the  honest  weaver  of  Kilbarchan, 
"Lord  send  us  a  gude  conceit  o'  oursel'I"  or  in 
the  words  of  the  auld  sang, 

"Who  does  me  disdain,  I  can  scorn  them  again, 
And  I'll  never  mind  any  such  foes." 

There  is  an  error  in  the  commerce  of  intimacy 
.  .  .  which  has  led  me  far  astray  .  .  .  those  who, 
by  way  of  exchange,  have  not  an  equivalent  to 
give  us;  and  what  is  still  worse,  have  no  idea  of 
the  value  of  our  goods.  Happy  is  our  lot,  indeed, 
when  we  meet  with  an  honest  merchant,  who  is 
qualified  to  deal  with  us  on  our  own  terms;  but 
that  is  a  rarity:  with  almost  everybody  we  must 
pocket  our  pearls,  less  or  more ;  and  learn,  in  the 
old  Scots  phrase,  "To  gie  sic  like  as  we  get."  For 
this  reason,  we  should  try  to  erect  a  kind  of  bank 
or  storehouse  in  our  own  mind ;  or,  as  the  Psalmist 
says,  "We  should  commune  with  our  own  hearts, 
and  be  still."  This  is"  exactly  the  ...  if  the 
friend  be  so  peculiarly  favoured  of  Heaven  as  to 
have  a  soul  as  noble  and  exalted  as  yours  sooner 
or  later  your  bosom  will  ache  with  disappoint- 
ment. 

—188— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


I  wrote  you  yesternight,  which  will  reach  you 
long  before  this  can.  I  may  write  Mr.  Ainslie 
before  I  see  him,  but  I  am  not  sure. 

Farewell!  and  remember 

SYLVANDEE. 


—189— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Edinburgh,  8th  March,  1788. 
I  was  agreeably  surprised  by  your  answer  to 
mine  of  Wednesday  coming  this  morning.  I 
thought  it  always  took  two  days,  a  letter  from 
this  to  Mauchline,  and  did  not  expect  yours 
sooner  than  Monday.  This  is  the  fifth  from  you, 
and  the  fourth  time  I  am  now  writing  you.  I 
hate  calculating  them:  like  some  things,  they 
don't  do  to  be  numbered.  I  wish  you  had  writ- 
ten from  Dumfries,  as  you  promised;  but  I  do 
not  impute  it  to  any  cause  but  hurry  of  business, 
&c.  I  hope  I  shall  never  live  to  reproach  you 
with  unkindness.  You  never  ought  to  put  off 
till  you  "have  time  to  do  justice  to  your  letters." 
I  have  sufficient  memorials  of  your  abilities  in 
that  way;  and  last  week  two  lines,  to  have  said 
"How  do  ye,  my  Clarinda,"  would  have  saved 
me  days  and  nights  of  cruel  disquietude.  "A 
word  to  the  wise,"  you  know.  I  know  human 
nature  better  than  to  expect  always  fine  flights 
of  fancy,  or  exertions  of  genius,  and  feel  in  my- 
self the  effects  of  this  "crazy  mortal  coil,"  upon 
its  glorious  inhabitant.  To-day  I  have  a  clog- 
ging headache;  but,  however  stupid,  I  know  (at 
least  I  hope)  a  letter  from  your  heart's  friend 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


will  be  acceptable.  It  will  reach  you  to-morrow, 
I  hope.  Shocking  custom!  one  can't  entertain 
with  hospitality  without  taxing  their  guests  with 
the  consequences  you  mention. 

Your  reflections  upon  the  effects  which  sick- 
ness has  on  our  retrospect  of  ourselves,  are  noble. 
I  see  my  Sylvander  will  be  all  I  wish  him,  before 
he  leaves  this  world.  Do  you  remember  what 
simple  eulogium  I  pronounced  on  you,  when 
Miss  Nimmo  asked,  what  I  thought  of  you: — 
"He  is  ane  of  God's  ain;  but  his  time's  no  come 
yet."  It  was  like  a  speech  from  your  worthy 
mother, — whom  I  revere.  She  would  have  joined 
me  with  a  heartfelt  sigh,  which  none  but  mothers 
know.  It  is  rather  a  bad  picture  of  us,  that  we 
are  most  prone  to  call  upon  God  in  trouble. 
Ought  not  the  daily  blessings  of  health,  peace, 
competence,  friends, — ought  not  these  to  awaken 
our  constant  gratitude  to  the  Giver  of  all?  I 
imagine,  that  the  heart  which  does  not  occasion- 
ally glow  with  filial  love  in  the  hours  of  prosper- 
ity, can  hardly  hope  to  feel  much  comfort  in  fly- 
ing to  God  in  the  time  of  distress.  O  my  dear 
Sylvander!  that  we  may  be  enabled  to  set  Him 
before  us,  as  our  witness,  benefactor,  and  judge, 
at  all  times,  and  on  all  occasions ! 

In  the  name  of  wonder  how  could  you  spend 

—191— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


ten  hours  with  such  a  as  Mr.  Pattison? 

What  a  despicable  character!  Religion!  he 
knows  only  the  name;  none  of  her  real  votaries 
ever  wished  to  make  any  such  shameful  com- 
promises. But  'tis  Scripture  verified — the 
demon  of  avarice,  his  original  devil,  finding  hini 
empty,  called  other  seven  more  impure  spirits, 
and  so  completely  infernalised  him.  Destitute 
of  discernment  to  perceive  your  merit,  or  taste 
to  relish  it,  my  astonishment  at  his  fondness  of 
you,  is  only  surpassed  by  your  more  than  Puri- 
tanic patience  in  listening  to  his  shocking  non- 
sense! I  hope  you  renewed  his  certificate.  I 
was  told,  it  was  in  a  tattered  condition  some 
months  ago,  and  that  he  proposed  putting  it  on 
parchment,  by  way  of  preserving  it.  Don't  call 
me  severe:  I  hate  all  who  would  turn  the  "Grace 
of  God  into  licentiousness;"  'tis  commonly  the 
weaker  part  of  mankind  who  attempt  it. 

"Religion,  Thou  the  soul  of  happiness." 

Yesterday  morning  in  bed  I  happened  to  think 
of  you.  I  said  to  myself,  "My  bonnie  Lizzie 
Baillie,"  &c.,  and  laughed;  but  I  felt  a  delicious 
swell  of  heart,  and  my  eyes  swam  in  tears.  I 
know  not  if  your  sex  ever  feel  this  burst  of  affec- 
tion; 'tis  an  emotion  indescribable.  You  see  I'm 
—192— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


grown  a  fool  since  you  left  me.  You  know  I  was 
rational,  when  you  first  knew  me,  but  I  always 
grow  more  foolish,  the  farther  I  am  from  those 
I  love;  by  and  by  I  suppose  I  shall  be  insane 
altogether. 

I  am  happy  your  little  lamb  is  doing  so  well. 
Did  you  execute  my  commission?  You  had  a 
great  stock  on  hand;  and,  if  any  agreeable  cus- 
tomers came  in  the  way,  you  would  dispose  of 
some  of  them  I  fancy,  hoping  soon  to  be  supplied 
with  a  fresh  assortment.  For  my  part,  I  can 
truly  say,  I  have  had  no  demand.  I  really  be- 
lieve you  have  taught  me  dignity,  which,  partly 
through  good  nature,  and  partly  by  misfortune, 
had  been  too  much  laid  aside;  which  now  I  will 
never  part  with.  Why  should  I  not  keep  it  up? 
Admired,  esteemed,  beloved,  by  one  of  the  first 
of  mankind!  Not  all  the  wealth  of  Peru  could 
have  purchased  these.  Oh,  Sylvander,  I  am  great 
in  my  own  eyes,  when  I  think  how  high  I  am,  in 
your  esteem!  You  have  shown  me  the  merit  I 
possess;  I  knew  it  not  before.  Even  Joseph 
trembled  t'other  day  in  my  presence.  "Hus- 
bands looked  mild  and  savages  grew  tame!"  Love 
and  cherish  your  friend  Mr.  Ainslie.  He  is  your 
friend  indeed.  I  long  for  next  week;  happy 
days,  I  hope,  yet  await  us.  When  you  meet 

—193— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


young  Beauties,  think  of  Clarinda's  affection — 
of  her  situation — of  how  much  her  happiness  de- 
pends on  you. 

Farewell,  till  we  meet.     God  be  with  you. 

CLARINDA. 

P.  S. — Will  you  take  the  trouble  to  send  for 
a  small  parcel  left  at  Dunlop  and  Wilson's, 
Booksellers,  Trongate,  Glasgow,  for  me,  and 
bring  it  with  you  in  the  Fly? 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  will  meet  you  to-morrow,  Clarinda,  as  you 
appoint.  My  Excise  affair  is  just  concluded, 
and  I  have  got  my  order  for  instructions :  so  far 
good.  Wednesday  night  I  am  engaged  to  sup 
among  some  of  the  principals  of  the  Excise:  so 
can  only  make  a  call  for  you  that  evening;  but 
next  day,  I  stay  to  dine  with  one  of  the  Commis- 
sioners, so  cannot  go  till  Friday  morning. 

Your  hopes,  your  fears,  your  cares,  my  love, 
are  mine ;  so  don't  mind  them.  I  will  take  you  in 
my  hand  through  the  dreary  wilds  of  this  world, 
and  scare  away  the  ravening  bird  or  beast  that 
would  annoy  you.  I  saw  Mary  in  town  to-day, 
and  asked  her  if  she  had  seen  you.  I  shall  cer- 
tainly bespeak  Mr.  Ainslie  as  you  desire. 

Excuse  me,  my  dearest  angel,  this  hurried 
scrawl  and  miserable  paper;  circumstances  make 
both.  Farewell  till  to-morrow. 

SYLVANDER. 

Monday,  Noon.     (31st  March.) 


-195— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  am  just  hurrying  away  to  wait  on  the  Great 
Man,  Clarinda;  but  I  have  more  respect  to  my 
own  peace  and  happiness  than  to  set  out  without 
waiting  on  you ;  for  my  imagination,  like  a  child's 
favourite  bird,  will  fondly  flutter  along  with  this 
scrawl,  till  it  perch  on  your  bosom.  I  thank  you 
for  all  the  happiness  you  bestowed  on  me  yester- 
day. The  walk — delightful;  the  evening — rap- 
ture. Do  not  be  uneasy  to-day,  Clarinda;  for- 
give me.  I  am  in  rather  better  spirits  to-day, 
though  I  had  but  an  indifferent  night.  Care, 
anxiety,  sat  on  my  spirits;  and  all  the  cheerful- 
ness of  this  morning  is  the  fruit  of  some  serious, 
important  ideas  that  lie,  in  their  realities,  beyond 
"the  dark  and  narrow  house,"  as  Ossian,  prince 
of  poets,  says.  The  Father  of  Mercies  be  with 
you,  Clarinda !  and  every  good  thing  attend  you ! 

SYLVANDER. 

Tuesday  Morning.     (8th  April.) 


—196— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Wednesday  Morning. 

Clarinda,  will  that  envious  night-cap  hinder 
you  from  appearing  at  the  window  as  I  pass? 
"Who  is  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning; 
fair  as  the  sun,  clear  as  the  moon,  terrible  as  an 
army  with  banners?" 

Do  not  accuse  me  of  fond  folly  for  this  line; 
you  know  I  am  a  cool  lover.  I  mean  by  these 
presents  greeting,  to  let  you  to  wit,  that  arch- 
rascal  Creech,*  has  not  done  my  business  yester- 
night, which  has  put  off  my  leaving  town  till 
Monday  morning.  To-morrow,  at  eleven,  I 
meet  with  him  for  the  last  time;  just  the  hour  I 
should  have  met  far  more  agreeable  company. 

You  will  tell  me  this  evening,  whether  you  can- 
not make  our  hour  of  meeting  to-morrow  one 
o'clock.  I  have  just  now  written  Creech  such  a 
letter,  that  the  very  goose-feather  in  my  hand 
shrunk  back  from  the  line,  and  seemed  to  say,  "I 
exceedingly  fear  and  quake!"  I  am  forming 
ideal  schemes  of  vengeance.  O  for  a  little  of  my 

*  Creech,  the  bookseller  who  published  the  second  edition  of 
Burns'  poems,  was  "a  pleasant  companion,  but  of  penurious  habits, 
and  extremely  dilatory  in  the  settling  of  accounts,  though  a  man  of 
considerable  wealth." 

—197— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


will  on  himl  I  just  wished  he  loved  as  I  do — 
as  glorious  an  object  as  Clarinda — and  that  he 
were  doomed.  Adieu,  and  think  on 

SYLVANDER. 


—198— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Friday,  Nine  o'clock,  Night. 

I  am  just  now  come  in,  and  have  read  your 
letter.  The  first  think  I  did,  was  to  thank  the 
Divine  Disposer  of  events,  that  he  has  had  such 
happiness  in  store  for  me  as  the  connexion  I  have 
with  you.  Life,  my  Clarinda,  is  a  weary,  bar- 
ren path ;  and  wo  be  to  him  or  her  that  ventures 
on  it  alone !  For  me,  I  have  my  dearest  partner 
of  my  soul:  Clarinda  and  I  will  make  out  our 
pilgrimage  together.  Wherever  I  am,  I  shall 
constantly  let  her  know  how  I  go  on,  what  I  ob- 
serve in  the  world  around  me,  and  what  adven- 
tures I  meet  with.  Will  it  please  you,  my  love, 
to  get,  every  week,  or,  at  least,  every  fortnight,  a 
packet,  two  or  three  sheets,  full  of  remarks,  non- 
sense, news,  rhymes,  and  old  songs  ? 

Will  you  open,  with  satisfaction  and  delight,  a 
letter  from  a  man  who  loves  you,  who  has  loved 
you,  and  who  will  love  you  to  death,  through 
death,  and  for  ever?  Oh  Clarinda!  what  do  I 
owe  to  Heaven  for  blessing  me  with  such  a  piece 
of  exalted  excellence  as  you!  I  call  over  your 
idea,  as  a  miser  counts  over  his  treasure!  Tell 
me,  were  you  studious  to  please  me  last  night? 
I  am  sure  you  did  it  to  transport.  How  rich  am 

—199— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


I  who  have  such  a  treasure  as  you!  You  know 
me;  you  know  how  to  make  me  happy,  and  you 
do  it  most  effectually.  God  bless  you  with 

"Long  life,  long  youth,  long  pleasure,  and  a 
friend!" 

To-morrow  night,  according  to  your  own  direc- 
tion, I  shall  watch  the  window:  'tis  the  star  that 
guides  me  to  Paradise.  The  great  relish  to  all 
is,  that  Honour,  that  Innocence,  that  Religion, 
are  the  witnesses  and  guarantees  of  our  happi- 
ness. "The  Lord  God  knoweth"  and  perhaps, 
"Israel  he  shall  know"  my  love  and  your  merit. 
Adieu,  Clarinda!  I  am  going  to  remember  you 
in  my  prayers. 

SYLVANDEB. 

"When  Burns  left  Edinburgh  in  April,  1788," 
writes  Mrs.  M'Lehose's  grandson,  "he  presented 
an  elegant  pair  of  drinking  glasses  to  Clarinda, 
with  the  following  verses.  The  glasses  were 
carefully  preserved  by  her,  and  often  taken  down 
from  the  open  cupboard  in  her  parlour,  to  show 
to  strangers." 


^-200— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


TO  CLARINDA 

(With  a  present  of  a  pair  of  drinking  glasses.) 

Fair  Empress  of  the  Poet's  soul, 

And  Queen  of  Poetesses, 
Clarinda,  take  this  little  boon, 

This  humble  pair  of  glasses; 

And  fill  them  high  with  generous  juice, 

As  generous  as  your  mind, 
And  pledge  me  in  the  generous  toast, 

"The  whole  of  humankind!" 

"To  those  who  love  us!"  second  fill, 
But  not  to  those  whom  we  love, 

Lest  we  love  those  who  love  not  us. 
A  third,  "To  thee  and  me,  love!" 

Burns'  marriage  followed  with  astounding 
haste  upon  the  letters  in  which  he  assured  Cla- 
rinda and  Ainslie  that  he  had  done  with  Jean 
and  she  with  him.  This  is  not  so  strange,  if  his 
feeling  for  Clarinda  were  more  than  a  mere  pas- 
sion. The  high  gods  have  no  pity  for  self-deceit, 
and  the  deeper  love  strikes  into  the  being  of  man 
and  woman,  the  more  inexorably  are  their  eyes 
opened  at  last  to  truth.  Some  new  and  pitiless 
clarity  of  vision  forced  upon  Burns  the  realisa- 

—201— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


tion  of  responsibilities  to  which  he  had  been  blind. 
In  the  letters  that  announced  his  marriage  to  his 
friends,  we  find  him  doggedly  clinging  to  a  cer- 
tain formula — "I  had  a  long  and  much-loved 
fellow-creature's  happiness  or  misery  in  my 
hands,  and  who  could  trifle  with  such  a  deposit?" 
His  estimate  of  marriage  was  confessedly  the 
Pauline  one,  but  of  that  Jean  never  complained. 
She  mothered  her  own  children — and  the  child 
of  another  woman,  for  Burns  married  was  still 
Burns — with  tender  patience;  and  not  the  bairns 
only,  but  their  father  too.  He  was  fond  of  her, 
kind  and  considerate  in  their  family  life ;  he  gave 
her,  not  only  some  exquisite  songs,  which  alas! 
came  all  too  cheap,  but  the  first  gingham  worn 
in  those  parts,  which  really  shows  some  costly 
thought  for  her  pleasure  and  dignity.  But  he 
says  a  volume  in  a  few  words  when  he  admits, 
"Conjugal  love  is  a  passion  which  I  deeply  feel 
and  highly  venerate;  but  somehow  it  does  not 
make  such  a  figure  in  poesy  as  that  other  species 
of  the  passion  where  love  is  liberty  and  nature 
law."  Duty  lay  heavily  upon  him — the  cart- 
horse part  of  human  nature  does  not  come  by 
wishing! — and  in  one  rather  pathetic  entry  of  his 
commonplace  book  we  find  him  wearied  to  death 
with  the  prosy  business  of  living. 
—202— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


ENTRY  IN  BURNS'  COMMON-PLACE  BOOK 

Ellisland,  14th  June,  1788.    Sunday. 

This  is  now  the  third  day  I  have  been  in  this 
country.  Lord,  what  is  man!  what  a  bustling 
little  bundle  of  passions,  appetites,  ideas  and  fan- 
cies! and  what  a  capricious  kind  of  existence  he 
has  here!  If  legendary  stories  be  true,  there  is 
indeed  an  Elsewhere,  where,  as  Thomson  says, 
"Virtue  sole  survives." 

"Tell  us,  ye  Dead; 

Will  none  of  you  in  pity  disclose  the  secret, 
What  'tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be? 

a  little  time 

Will  make  us  learned  as  you  are,  and  as  close." 

I  am  such  a  coward  in  Life,  so  tired  of  the  Ser- 
vice, that  I  would  almost  at  any  time  with  Mil- 
ton's Adam — 

"gladly  lay  me  in  my  mother's  lap 
And  be  at  peace." 

but  a  wife  and  children,  in  poetics,  "The  fair 
Partner  of  my  soul  and  the  little  dear  Pledges  of 
our  mutual  love,"  these  bind  me  to  struggle  with 
the  stream;  till  some  chopping  squall  overset  the 

—203— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


silly  vessel,  or,  in  the  listless  return  of  years,  its 
own  craziness  drive  it  to  a  wreck.  Farewell,  now, 
to  those  giddy  Follies,  those  varnished  Vices, 
which,  though  half  sanctified  by  the  bewitching 
levity  of  Wit  and  Humour,  are  at  best  but  thrift- 
less idling  with  the  precious  current  of  existence ; 
nay,  often  poisoning  the  whole,  that,  like  the 
Plains  of  Jericho,  "The  water  is  naught,  and  the 
ground  barren,"  and  nothing  short  of  a  super- 
naturally  gifted  Elisha  can  ever  after  heal  the 
evils. 

Wedlock,  the  circumstance  that  buckles  me 
hardest  to  Care,  if  Virtue  and  Religion  were  to 
be  anything  with  me  but  mere  names,  was  what 
in  a  few  seasons  I  must  have  resolved  on;  in  the 
present  case  it  was  unavoidably  necessary.  Hu- 
manity, Generosity,  honest  vanity  of  character, 
Justice  to  my  own  happiness  for  after-life,  so 
far  as  it  could  depend,  which  it  surely  will  a  great 
deal,  on  internal  peace,  all  these  joined  their 
warmest  suffrages,  their  most  powerful  solicita- 
tions, with  a  rooted  Attachment,  to  urge  the  step 
I  have  taken.  Nor  have  I  any  reason  on  her 
part  to  rue  it.  I  can  fancy  how,  but  I  have  never 
seen  where,  I  could  have  made  it  better.  Come 
then,  let  me  return  to  my  favourite  Motto,  that 
glorious  passage  in  Young — 

—204— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


"On  Reason  build  Resolve, 
That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man." 

We  do  not  know  whether  he  wrote  Clarinda 
the  news  of  his  marriage,  or  left  the  knowledge 
to  reach  her  by  indirect  ways.  The  following 
letter  proves  that  she  took  it  extremely  ill. 
While  we  may  well  guess  that,  setting  aside  her 
little  preachments,  Clarinda  did  not  make  self- 
control  any  too  easy  for  Burns,  it  is  noteworthy 
that  this  is  the  only  occasion  when  he  turns  upon 
her  with  any  suggestion  to  that  effect. 


—205— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

March  9th,  1789. 

MADAM, — The  letter  you  wrote  me  to  Heron's 
carries  its  own  answer  in  its  bosom;  you  forbade 
me  to  write  you,  unless  I  was  willing  to  plead 
guilty  to  a  certain  indictment  that  you  were 
pleased  to  bring  against  me.  As  I  am  convinced 
of  my  own  innocence,  and,  though  conscious  of 
high  imprudence  and  egregious  folly,  can  lay  my 
hand  on  my  breast  and  attest  the  rectitude  of  my 
heart,  you  will  pardon  me,  Madam,  if  I  do  not 
carry  my  complaisance  so  far,  as  humbly  to  ac- 
quiesce in  the  name  of  Villain,  merely  out  of  com- 
pliment to  your  opinion;  much  as  I  esteem  your 
judgment,  and  warmly  as  I  regard  your  worth. 
I  have  already  told  you,  and  I  again  aver  it, 
that,  at  the  period  of  time  alluded  to,  I  was  not 
under  the  smallest  moral  tie  to  Mrs.  Burns;  nor 
did  I,  nor  could  I  then  know,  all  the  powerful 
circumstances  that  omnipotent  necessity  was 
busy  laying  in  wait  for  me.  When  you  call  over 
the  scenes  that  have  passed  between  us,  you  will 
survey  the  conduct  of  an  honest  man,  struggling 
successfully  with  temptations,  the  most  powerful 
that  ever  beset  humanity,  and  preserving  un- 
tainted honour,  in  situations  where  the  austerest 


SYLVANDEB,  AND   CLARINDA 


virtue  would  have  forgiven  a  fall :  situations  that, 
I  will  dare  to  say,  not  a  single  individual  of  all 
his  kind,  even  with  half  his  sensibility  and  pas- 
sion, could  have  encountered  without  ruin;  and 
I  leave  you  to  guess,  Madam,  how  such  a  man  is 
likely  to  digest  an  accusation  of  perfidious  treach- 
ery. 

Was  I  to  blame,  Madam,  in  being  the  dis- 
tracted victim  of  charms  which,  I  affirm  it,  no 
man  ever  approached  with  impunity?  Had  I 
seen  the  least  glimmering  of  hope  that  these 
charms  could  ever  have  been  mine;  or  even  had 
not  iron  necessity — but  these  are  unavailing 
words. 

I  would  have  called  on  you  when  I  was  in  town, 
indeed  I  could  not  have  resisted  it,  but  that  Mr. 
Ainslie  told  me,  that  you  were  determined  to 
avoid  your  windows  while  I  was  in  town,  lest 
even  a  glance  of  me  should  occur  in  the  street. 

When  I  shall  have  regained  your  good  opin- 
ion, perhaps  I  may  venture  to  solicit  your  friend- 
ship; but,  be  that  as  it  may,  the  first  of  her  sex 
I  ever  knew  shall  always  be  the  object  of  my 
warmest  good  wishes. 

R.  B. 


—207- 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


(About  end  of  January,  1790.) 
I  have,  indeed,  been  ill,  Madam,  this  whole 
winter.  An  incessant  headache,  depression  of 
spirits,  and  all  the  truly  miserable  consequences 
of  a  deranged  nervous  system  have  made  dread- 
ful havoc  of  my  health  and  peace.  Add  to  all 
this,  a  line  of  life,  into  which  I  have  lately  en- 
tered, obliges  me  to  ride,  upon  an  average,  at 
least  two  hundred  miles  every  week.  However, 
thank  Heaven  I  am  now  greatly  better  in  my 
health.  .  .  . 

I  cannot,  will  not,  enter  into  extenuatory  cir- 
cumstances; else  I  could  show  you  how  my  pre- 
cipitate, headlong,  unthinking  conduct,  leagued 
with  a  conjuncture  of  unlucky  events,  to  thrust 
me  out  of  a  possibility  of  keeping  the  path  of 
rectitude ;  to  curse  me,  by  an  irreconcileable  war 
between  my  duty  and  my  nearest  wishes,  and  to 
damn  me  with  a  choice  only  of  different  species 
of  error  and  misconduct. 

I  dare  not  trust  myself  further  with  this  sub- 
ject. The  following  song  is  one  of  my  latest 
productions ;  and  I  send  it  to  you  as  I  would  do 
anything  else,  because  it  pleases  myself. 

—208— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


MY  LOVELY  NANCY 

Time:  The  Quaker's  Wife. 

Thine  am  I,  my  faithful  fair, 
Thine,  my  lovely  Nancy ; 
Ev'ry  pulse  along  my  veins, 
Ev'ry  roving  fancy. 

To  thy  bosom  lay  my  heart, 
There  to  throb  and  languish: 
Tho'  despair  had  wrung  its  core, 
That  would  heal  its  anguish. 

Take  away  those  rosy  lips, 
Rich  with  balmy  treasure; 
Turn  away  thine  eyes  of  love, 
Lest  I  die  with  pleasure. 

What  is  life  when  wanting  love? 
Night  without  a  morning: 
Love's  the  cloudless  summer  sun, 
Nature  gay  adorning. 

The  following  fragment  was  found  endorsed 
by  Clarinda,  "Received  Feb.  5, 1790."  By  some 
it  is  supposed  to  be  a  part  of  the  preceding  letter, 
but  from  the  allusions  it  would  rather  seem  to 
have  been  written  upon  receiving  her  answer. 

—209— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


I  could  not  answer  your  last  letter  but  one. 
When  you  in  so  many  words  tell  a  man  that  you 
look  on  his  letters  with  a  smile  of  contempt,  in 
what  language,  Madam,  can  he  answer  you? 
Though  I  were  conscious  that  I  had  acted  wrong 
— and  I  am  conscious  that  I  have  acted  wrong — 
yet  would  I  not  be  bullied  into  repentance;  but 
your  last  letter.  .  .  .  Madam,  determined  as 
you.  .  .  . 

The  reverse  of  the  fragment  contains  the  verses 
"To  Mary  in  Heaven." 

In  the  opera  of  Julien  we  have  the  saddest 
point  of  the  hero's  life  marked  by  a  travesty  of 
his  most  sacred  experience, — the  high  priest  of 
Art  burlesqued  by  a  street  showman  and  the 
Goddess  of  Beauty  by  a  drunken  girl  of  the  gut- 
ters. Often  in  the  work  of  men  who  have  staked 
much  on  some  principle,  we  find  the  terrible  mo- 
ment of  reaction  where  they  laugh  at  that  prin- 
ciple and  at  the  fools  who  champion  it,  as  in 
Ibsen's  "Wild  Duck."  In  the  last  years  of  Burns, 
we  find  a  travesty  of  his  passion  for  Nancy, — a 
thin,  cheap,  trifling  affair  and  deliberate  withal, 
almost  as  if  he  thought  that  belittling  the  former 
experience  could  lessen  the  pain  it  had  left. 
Mrs.  Whelpdale,  the  "lassie  wi'  the  lint-white 

—210— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


locks"  whom  he  chose  for  his  Chloris,  had  made 
a  foolish  marriage  and  was  deserted  by  her  repro- 
bate husband,  like  Clarinda.  He  carried  the 
dreary  play  far  enough  to  suggest  changing  in  a 
later  edition  the  opening  line  of  the  foregoing 
song  to  read 

"Thine  am  I,  my  Chloris  fair." 

He  had  already  altered  the  second  and  fourth 
lines,  much  to  the  poem's  detriment. 

But  Chloris  was  only  a  poor  shadow  after  all, 
and  he  seems  to  have  realised  it.  He  writes  to 
George  Thomson,  in  1796,  the  year  of  his  death: 
"In  my  by  past  songs  I  dislike  one  thing — the 
name  Chloris.  I  meant  it  as  the  fictitious  name 
of  a  certain  lady,  but  on  second  thoughts  it  is  a 
high  incongruity  to  have  a  Greek  appellation  to 
a  Scotch  pastoral  ballad.  Of  this  and  of  some 
things  else  in  my  next ;  I  have  other  amendments 
to  propose.  What  you  once  mentioned  of  flaxen 
locks  is  just.  They  cannot  enter  into  an  elegant 
description  of  beauty." 

So  much  for  Chloris. 


-211— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Probably  July,  1791. 

I  have  received  both  your  last  letters,  Madam, 
and  ought,  and  would,  have  answered  the  first 
long  ago.  But  on  what  subject  shall  I  write 
you?  How  can  you  expect  a  correspondent 
should  write  you  when  you  declare  that  you  mean 
to  preserve  his  letters,  with  a  view  sooner  or  later, 
to  expose  them  on  the  pillory  of  derision,  and  the 
rack  of  criticism?  This  is  gagging  me  com- 
pletely, as  to  speaking  the  sentiments  of  my 
bosom;  else,  Madam,  I  could,  perhaps,  too  truly 

"Join  grief  with  grief,  and  echo  sighs  to  thine!" 

I  have  perused  your  most  beautiful,  but  most 
pathetic  poem :  do  not  ask  me  how  often,  or  with 
what  emotions.  You  know  that  "I  dare  to  sin, 
but  not  to  lie!"  Your  verses  wring  the  confes- 
sion from  my  inmost  soul,  that — I  will  say  it,  ex- 
pose it  if  you  please — that  I  have,  more  than 
once  in  my  life,  been  the  victim  of  a  damning 
conjuncture  of  circumstances;  and  that  to  me 
you  must  be  ever 

"Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes." 
—212-^ 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


I  have  just,  since  I  had  yours,  composed  the 
following  stanzas.  Let  me  know  your  opinion 
of  them. 

Sensibility,  how  charming, 
Thou,  my  Friend,  canst  truly  tell; 

But  Distress,  with  horrors  arming, 
Thou,  alas !  hast  known  too  well ! 

Fairest  Flower,  behold  the  lily, 

Blooming  in  the  sunny  ray; 
Let  the  blast  sweep  o'er  the  valley, 

See  it  prostrate  in  the  clay. 

Hear  the  wood-lark  charm  the  forest, 

Telling  o'er  his  little  joys; 
But,  alas!  a  prey  the  surest 

To  each  pirate  of  the  skies. 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure 

Finer  feelings  can  bestow : 
Chords  that  vibrate  sweetest  pleasure 

Thrill  the  deepest  notes  of  woe. 

I  have  one  other  piece  in  your  taste;  but  I  have 
just  a  snatch  of  time. 

R.  B. 

The  following  poem  would  appear  to  be  the 
one  which  he  speaks  of  her  sending  him. 

—213— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYMPATHY 

Assist  me,  all  ye  gentle  powers 
That  sweeten  Friendship's  happy  hours, 
Whilst  I  attempt  to  sing  of  thee, 
Heav'n-born  emotion,  Sympathy. 

When  first  I  saw  my  rural  swain, 
The  pride  of  all  the  tuneful  train, 
That  hour  we  lov'd — what  could  it  be 
But  thy  sweet  magic,  Sympathy? 

Nor  sordid  wealth,  nor  giddy  power, 
Could  e'er  confer  one  happy  hour — 
One  hour  like  those  I've  spent  with  thee, 
In  love's  endearing  sympathy ! 

All  hail !  the  heav'n-inspired  mind, 
That  glows  with  love  of  human-kind ; 
'Tis  thine  to  feel  the  ecstasy — 
Soul  link'd  to  soul  by  Sympathy. 


—214— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

Edinburgh,  2nd  August. 

Your  surely  mistake  me,  Sir — "Expose  your 
letters  to  criticism!"  Nothing  could  be  farther 
from  my  intention :  read  my  letters  and  you  will 
find  nothing  to  justify  such  an  idea.  But  I  sup- 
pose they  are  burned,  so  you  can't  have  recourse 
to  them.  In  an  impassioned  hour  I  once  talked 
of  publishing  them,  but  a  little  cool  reflection 
showed  me  its  impropriety:  the  idea  has  long 
been  abandoned  and  I  wish  you  to  write  me  with 
that  confidence  you  would  do  to  a  person  of 
whom  you  entertained  a  good  opinion  and  who 
is  sincerely  interested  in  your  welfare.  To  the 
"everyday  children  of  the  world"  I  well  know  one 
cannot  speak  the  sentiments  of  the  bosom. 

I  am  pleased  with  your  reception  of  the  Poem 
and  no  less  so  with  your  beautiful  stanzas  in 
consequence.  The  last  I  think  particularly  ele- 
gant— 

Dearly  bought  the  hidden  treasure,  &c. 

It  has  procured  me  a  short  visit  from  the  Muse, 
who  has  been  a  stranger  since  the  "Golden 
Dream"  of  '88.  The  verses  are  inaccurate,  but 

—215— 


SYLVANDEE   AND   CLARINDA 


if  worth  while,  pray  correct  them  for  me.    Here 
they  are — 

Yes,  Sensibility  is  charming 

Tho'  it  may  wound  the  tender  mind, 

Nature's  stores,  the  bosom  warming, 
Yield  us  pleasures  most  refined. 

See  yonder  pair  of  warbling  linnets, 
How  their  music  charms  the  grove ; 

What  else  with  rapture  fills  their  minutes 
But  Sensibility  and  Love? 

Ev'n  should  the  sportsmen  (cruel  rovers!) 
Rob  them  of  their  tuneful  breath, 

How  blest  the  little  life-long  lovers, 
Undivided  in  their  death! 

A  long-loved  maid,  nipt  in  the  blossom, 
May  lie  in  yonder  kirkyard  green; 

Yet  Mem'ry  soothes  her  lover's  bosom, 
Recalling  many  a  raptured  scene. 

Or,  musing  by  the  rolling  ocean, 

See  him  sit  with  visage  wan, 
As  wave  succeeding  wave  in  motion, 

Mourns  the  chequer'd  life  of  Man. 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Sensibility!   sweet  treasure, 

Still  I'll  sing  in  praise  of  thee: 
All  that  mortals  know  of  pleasure 

Flows  from  Sensibility.* 

Let  me  know  what  you  think  of  this  poor  imi- 
tation of  your  style  'Tis  metre,  but  not  poetry. 

Pray,  have  you  seen  Greenfield's  Poems?  or 
Miss  Carmichael's  ?  The  last  are  very  poor,  I 
think. 

I  have  been  reading  Beattie's  Minstrel  for  the 
first  time.  What  a  delicious  treat! 

Interrupted — adieu ! 

A.M. 

*Mr.  Scott  Douglas,  who  first  printed  this  letter,  added  the 
note:  "We  have,  for  want  of  space,  been  compelled  to  abridge 
Clarinda's  little  sentimental  poem,  but  the  omitted  stanzas  are  in 
quality  considerably  inferior  to  those  here  presented." 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


FROM  MRS.  M'LEHOSE'S  NARRATIVE 

In  August,  1791,  "I  had  a  letter"  (from  Mr. 
M'Lehose)  "and,  soon  after,  another,  inviting  me 
to  come  out  to  Jamaica  and  enclosing  a  bill  for 
£50,  which  was  meant,  I  suppose,  to  equip  me; 
and  containing  the  most  flattering  directions  to 
give  his  only  surviving  son  the  best  education 
Edinburgh  could  afford."  (Mr.  M'Lehose  had 
all  this  time  been  prospering  in  Jamaica,  but  in 
spite  of  strenuous  efforts  to  recall  him  to  his 
duty,  not  a  farthing  had  found  its  way  to  his 
family.)  "I  consulted  my  friends;  they  declined 
giving  any  advice,  and  referred  me  to  my  own 
mind.  After  much  agitation,  and  deep  and 
anxious  reflection  for  my  child's  sake,  for  whom 
he  promised  such  liberal  things,  and  encouraged 
by  flattering  accounts  of  his  character  and  con- 
duct in  Jamaica,  I  resolved  to  undertake  the 
arduous  voyage."  (It  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that 
the  marriage  of  Burns  may  have  counted  for 
something  in  her  decision. ) 

She  wrote  as  follows  to  her  cousin,  Lord 
Craig.  "When  I  wrote  you  last,  the  bidding 
adieu  to  my  dear  boy  was  my  only  source  of 
anxiety.  I  had  then  no  idea  whatever  of  going 
out  to  Mr.  M'Lehose.  Next  day  I  learned  from 

—218— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


Mrs.  Adair  that  Captain  Liddel  told  her  my 
husband  had  the  strongest  resolution  of  using 
me  kindly,  in  case  I  accepted  of  his  invitation; 
and  that  pride  alone  hindered  him  acknowledging 
his  faults  a  second  time,  still  hurt  at  my  not  an- 
swering his  overtures  of  reconciliation  from  Lon- 
don. But  that,  in  case  I  did  not  choose  to  come 
over,  I  might  rest  assured  I  would  never  hear 
from  him  while  he  existed.  Captain  Liddel 
added  his  opinion,  that  I  ought  to  go,  in  the 
strongest  terms.  Mrs.  Adair  joins  him;  and 
above  all,  my  poor  boy  adds  his  entreaties  most 
earnestly.  I  thought  it  prudent  to  inform  him, 
for  the  first  time,  of  the  disagreement  between 
his  parents,  and  the  unhappy  jealousy  in  his 
father's  temper.  Still  he  argues  that  his  father 
may  be  incensed  at  my  refusal.  If  I  go  I  have 
a  terror  of  the  sea,  and  no  less  of  the  climate; 
above  all,  the  horror  of  again  involving  myself 
in  misery  in  the  midst  of  strangers,  and  almost 
without  remedy.  If  I  refuse,  I  must  bid  my 
only  child  (in  whom  all  my  affections  and  hopes 
are  entirely  centred)  adieu  for  ever;  struggle 
with  a  straitened  income  and  the  world's  censure 
solitary  and  unprotected.  The  bright  side  of 
these  alternatives  is,  that  if  I  go,  my  husband's 
jealousy  of  temper  may  be  abated  from  a  better 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


knowledge  of  the  world;  and  time  and  misfor- 
tunes, by  making  alterations  both  on  person  and 
vivacity,  will  render  me  less  likely  to  incur  his 
suspicions;  and  that  ill  humour,  which  partly 
arose  from  straitened  fortune,  will  be  removed 
by  affluence.  I  will  enjoy  my  son's  society,  and 
have  him  for  a  friend;  and  who  knows  what  ef- 
fect so  fine  a  boy  may  have  on  a  father  long 
absent  from  his  sight.  If  I  refuse,  and  stay  here, 
I  shall  continue  to  enjoy  a  circle  of  kind,  re- 
spectable friends.  Though  my  income  be  small, 
I  can  never  be  in  want;  and  I  shall  maintain 
that  liberty  which,  after  nine  years'  enjoyment,  I 
shall  find  it  hard  to  forego,  even  to  the  degree  to 
which  I  am  sensible  every  married  woman  must 
submit." 

A  few  days  later  she  wrote  again  to  her  cousin. 
"On  Friday  last  I  went  down  to  Leith  and  had 
a  conversation  on  board  the  Rosette  with  Captain 
Liddel.  He  told  me  that  Mr.  M'Lehose  had 
talked  of  me  and  of  my  coming  over,  with  great 
tenderness;  and  said,  it  would  be  my  fault  if  we 
did  not  enjoy  great  happiness;  and  concluded 
with  assuring  me,  if  I  were  his  own  child  he 
would  advise  me  to  go  out.  This  conversation 
has  tended  greatly  to  decide  my  accepting  my 
husband's  invitation.  I  have  done  what  you  de- 

—220— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


sired  me, — weighed  coolly  (as  coolly  as  a  sub- 
ject so  interesting  would  permit)  all  I  have 
to  suffer  or  to  expect  in  either  situation;  and 
the  result  is,  my  going  to  Jamaica.  This  appears 
to  me  the  preferable  choice :  it  is  surely  the  path 
of  duty ;  and  as  such,  I  may  look  for  the  blessing 
of  God  to  attend  my  endeavours  for  happiness 
with  him  who  was  the  husband  of  my  choice  and 
the  father  of  my  children.  On  Saturday  I  was 
agreeably  surprised  by  a  call  from  Mr.  Kemp. 
He  had  received  my  letter  that  morning  at  Glas- 
gow, and  had  alighted  for  a  few  minutes,  on  his 
way  to  Easter  Duddungston,  where  his  family 
are  for  summer  quarters.  He  was  much  affected 
with  my  perplexing  situation.  Like  you,  he 
knew  not  how  to  decide,  and  left  me,  promising 
to  call  early  this  day,  which  he  has  done.  I  told 
him  of  the  meeting  with  Mr.  Liddel,  and  enumer- 
ated all  the  arguments  which  I  had  thought  of  on 
both  sides  of  the  question.  What  Mr.  Liddel 
(who  is  a  man  of  known  worth)  said  to  me 
weighed  much  with  him;  and  he,  too,  is  now  of 
opinion  my  going  to  Jamaica  is  advisable.  He 
gave  me  much  good  advice  as  to  my  conduct 
towards  Mr.  M'Lehose,  and  promised  to  write 
him  himself.  Your  letter  luckily  arrived  while 
he  was  with  me.  The  assurance  of  my  little  in- 

—221— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


come  being  secured  me,  not  a  little  adds  both  to 
his  opinion  of  the  propriety  of  my  going,  and 
to  my  ease  and  comfort,  in  case  (after  doing  all 
I  can)  it  should  prove  impossible  to  enjoy  that 
peace  which  I  so  earnestly  pant  after;  and  I 
would  fain  hope  for  a  tender  reception.  After 
ten  years'  separation,  and  the  sacrifice  I  make 
of  bidding  adieu  (probably  for  ever)  to  my 
friends  and  my  country — indeed,  I  am  much  de- 
pressed in  mind — should  I  escape  the  sea,  the 
climate  may  prove  fatal  to  me ;  but  should  it  hap- 
pen so,  I  have  the  satisfaction  to  think  I  shall 
die  in  attempting  to  attain  happiness  in  that  path 

*- 

of  duty  which  Providence  and  a  succession  of 
events  seem  to  point  out  for  the  best.  You,  my 
dear  kind  benefactor,  have  had  much  trouble 
with  me  first  and  last;  and  though  others  appear 
ungrateful,  neither  time  nor  absence  can  ever 
erase  from  my  heart  the  remembrance  of  your 
past  kindness.  My  prayers  shall  ascend  for  the 
reward  of  Heaven  upon  your  head !  To-morrow 
I  am  to  write  to  my  husband.  Mr.  Kemp  is  to 
see  it  on  Wednesday.  If  any  person  occurs  to 
you  as  proper  to  place  Andrew  with  in  Edin- 
burgh, let  me  know — the  sooner  the  better:  the 
hopes  of  his  rejoining  me  will  help  to  console 
my  mind  in  the  midst  of  strangers.  I  am  sorry 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLABJNDA 


you  are  to  be  so  long  of  coming  to  town.  Mean- 
time I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  from  you ;  for  I  am, 
my  dear  Sir,  in  every  possible  situation  your 
affectionate  and  obliged  friend,  A.  M." 

"I  accordingly  wrote  to  my  husband  in  Octo- 
ber, 1791,  acquainting  him  with  my  resolution  of 
forgetting  past  differences,  and  throwing  myself 
on  his  protection."  As  the  Rosette — which,  by  a 
curious  coincidence  was  the  ship  in  which  Burns 
had  thought  of  making  his  voyage  to  Jamaica — 
did  not  sail  till  spring,  she  again  wrote  to  her 
husband  in  December.  "I  had  occasion  to  be  in 
Glasgow  lately  for  two  days  only.  I  called  for 
your  mother.  I  felt  much  for  her — bereaved  of 
so  many  children.  They  told  me  you  had  not 
written  for  these  three  years  past ;  but  I  assured 
them  (and  I  hope  it  is  the  case)  that  your  letters 
must  have  miscarried,  as  I  could  not  believe  you 
capable  of  such  unkind  neglect.  I  am  certain, 
inclination  no  less  than  duty,  must  ever  prompt 
you  to  pay  attention  to  your  mother.  She  has 
met  with  many  and  sore  afflictions;  and  I  feel 
for  her  the  most  sincere  sympathy.  ...  I  have 
met  with  much  kindness  since  I  came  to  Edin- 
burgh, from  a  set  of  most  agreeable  and  respect- 
able friends.  No  ideas  of  wealth  or  splendour 
could  compensate  for  the  pain  I  feel  in  bidding 

—223— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


them  adieu.  Nothing  could  support  me  but  the 
fond  reliance  I  have  of  gaining  your  affections 
and  confidence.  To  possess  these  is  the  dearest 
wish  of  my  heart ;  and  I  trust  the  Almighty  will 
grant  this  my  ardent  desire.  I  would  fain  hope 
to  hear  from  you  ere  we  sail;  a  kind  letter  from 
you  would  prove  a  balm  to  my  soul  during  the 
anxieties  of  a  tedious  voyage." 


—224— 

m 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLAEINDA  TO  SYLVANDER 

November,  1791. 

Sir, — I  take  the  liberty  of  addressing  a  few 
lines  in  behalf  of  your  old  acquaintance,  Jenny 
Clow,  who,  to  all  appearance,  is  at  this  moment 
dying.  Obliged,  from  all  the  symptoms  of  a 
rapid  decay,  to  quit  her  service,  she  is  gone  to 
a  room  almost  without  common  necessaries,  un- 
tended  and  unmourned.  In  circumstances  so  dis- 
tressing, to  whom  can  she  so  naturally  look  for 
aid  as  to  the  father  of  her  child,  the  man  for 
whose  sake  she  has  suffered  many  a  sad  and 
anxious  night,  shut  from  the  world,  with  no  other 
companions  than  guilt  and  solitude?  You  have 
now  an  opportunity  to  evince  you  indeed  possess 
thooe  fine  feelings  you  have  delineated,  so  as 
to  claim  the  just  admiration  of  your  country.  I 
am  convinced  I  need  add  nothing  farther  to 
persuade  you  to  act  as  every  consideration  of 
humanity  must  dictate.  I  am,  Sir,  your  sincere 
well-wisher, 

A.M. 


—225— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Dumfries,  23d  November,  1791. 
It  is  extremely  difficult,  my  dear  Madam,  for 
me  to  deny  a  lady  anything ;  But  to  a  lady  whom 
I  regard  with  all  the  endearing  epithets  of  re- 
spectful esteem  and  old  friendship,  how  shall  I 
find  the  language  of  refusal?  I  have,  indeed,  a 
shade  *  of  the  lady,  which  I  keep,  and  shall  ever 
keep  in  the  sanctum  sanctorum  of  my  most 
anxious  care.  That  lady,  though  an  unfortunate 
and  irresistible  conjuncture  of  circumstances  has 
lost  me  her  esteem,  yet  she  shall  be  ever,  to  me 

"Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart." 

I  am  rather  anxious  for  her  sake,  as  to  her  voy- 
age. I  pray  God  my  fears  may  be  groundless. 
By  the  way,  I  have  this  moment  a  letter  from 
her,  with  a  paragraph  or  two  conceived  in  so 
stately  a  style,  that  I  would  not  pardon  it  in 
any  created  being  except  herself;  but,  as  the  sub- 
ject interests  me  much,  I  shall  answer  it  to  you, 
as  I  do  not  know  her  present  address.  I  am  sure 
she  must  have  told  you  of  a  girl,  a  Jenny  Clow, 

*  Not  in  the  breast-pin,  however,  which  enshrined  it  on  his  re- 
turn from  Edinburgh.  After  his  marriage,  he  substituted  for 
Clarinda's  silhouette  one  of  Jean,  with  the  motto,  "To  err  is 
human;  to  forgive,  divine." 

—226— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


who  had  the  misfortune  to  make  me  a  father,  with 
contrition  I  own  it,  contrary  to  the  laws  of  our 
most  excellent  constitution,  in  our  holy  Presby- 
terian hierarchy. 

Mrs.  M tells  me  a  tale  of  the  poor  girl's 

distress  that  makes  my  very  heart  weep  blood.  I 
will  trust  that  your  goodness  will  apologise  to 
your  delicacy  for  me,  when  I  beg  of  you,  for 
Heaven's  sake,  to  send  a  porter  to  the  poor 
woman — Mrs.  M.,  it  seems,  knows  where  she  is 
to  be  found — with  five  shillings  in  my  name ;  and, 
as  I  shall  be  in  Edinburgh  on  Tuesday  first,  for 
certain,  make  the  poor  wench  Jeave  a  line  for  me, 
before  Tuesday,  at  Mr.  Mackay's,  White  Hart 
Inn,  Grassmarket,  where  I  shall  put  up ;  and,  be- 
fore I  am  two  hours  in  town,  I  shall  see  the  poor 
girl,  and  try  what  is  to  be  done  for  her  relief. 
I  would  have  taken  my  boy  from  her  long  ago, 
but  she  would  never  consent. 

I  shall  do  myself  the  very  great  pleasure  to 
call  for  you  when  I  come  to  town,  and  repay  you 
the  sum  your  goodness  shall  have  advanced.  .  .  . 

and  most  obedient, 

ROBERT  BURNS. 

Burns  was  in  Edinburgh  from  the  29th  of 
November  to  the  6th  of  December,  on  which  date 

—227— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


he  returned  to  Dumfries,  after  what  was  to  be 
the  last  of  all  his  meetings  with  Clarinda.  It  is 
supposed  that  it  is  to  this  occasion  he  refers  in  his 
poem,  "O  May,  thy  morn  was  ne'er  sae  sweet  as 
the  mirk  night  of  December." 

It  is  evident  from  the  letters  and  poems  that 
follow  that  the  reconciliation  was  complete. 


-228— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

He  transcribes  in  full  his  Lament  of  Mary, 
Queen  of  Scots,  and  adds. 

Such,  my  dearest  Clarinda,  were  the  words  of 
the  amiable  but  unfortunate  Mary.  Misfortune 
seems  to  take  a  peculiar  pleasure  in  darting  her 
arrows  against  "honest  men  and  bonny  lasses." 
Of  this  you  are  too,  too  just  a  proof;  but  may 
your  future  fate  be  a  bright  exception  to  the  re- 
mark! In  the  words  of  Hamlet, 

"Adieu,  adieu,  adieu !    Remember  me." 

SYLVANDEB. 

Leadhills,  Thursday,  Noon,     (llth  December,  1791.) 


—229— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Dumfries. 

I  have  some  merit,  my  ever  dearest  of  women, 
in  attracting  and  securing  the  heart  of  Clarinda. 
In  her  I  met  with  the  most  accomplished  of  all 
womankind,  the  first  of  all  God's  works ;  and  yet 
I,  even  I,  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  appear 
amiable  in  her  sight. 

By  the  by,  this  is  the  sixth  letter  that  I  have 
written  you  since  I  left  you ;  and  if  you  were  an 
ordinary  being,  as  you  are  a  creature  very  ex- 
traordinary— an  instance  of  what  God  Almighty 
in  the  plenitude  of  his  power  and  the  fulness  of 
his  goodness,  can  make!  I  would  never  forgive 
you  for  not  answering  my  letters. 

I  have  sent  in  your  hair,  a  part  of  the  parcel 
you  gave  me,  with  a  measure,  to  Mr.  Bruce  the 
jeweller  in  Prince's  Street,  to  get  a  ring  done 
for  me.  I  have  likewise  sent  in  the  verses  On 
Sensibility  altered  to 

"Sensibility  how  charming, 
Dearest  Nancy,  thou  canst  tell,"  &c., 

to  the  Editor  of  the  Scots  Songs,  of  which  you 
have  three  volumes,  set  to  a  most  beautiful  air; 
—230— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


out  of  compliment  to  the  first  of  women,  my  ever- 
beloved,  my  ever-sacred  Clarinda.  I  shall  proba- 
bly write  you  to-morrow.  In  the  meantime,  from 
a  man  who  is  literally  drunk,  accept  and  forgive ! 

R.  B. 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Dumfries,  27th  December,  1791. 
I  have  yours,  my  ever  dearest  Madam,  this 
moment.  I  have  just  ten  minutes  before  the  post 
goes;  and  these  I  shall  employ  in  sending  you 
some  songs  I  have  just  been  composing  to  dif- 
ferent tunes,  for  the  Collection  of  Songs,  of 
which  you  have  three  volumes,  and  of  which  you 

shall  have  the  fourth, 
i 

SONG 

Time:  Rory  DaU's  Port. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  fareweel,  and  then  for  ever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

\ 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 

While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him? 
Me,  nae  cheerful  twinkle  lights  me; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy: 
But  to  see  her  was  to  love  her; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
—232— 


SYLVANDER  AND   CLAEINDA 


Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  blindly! 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest! 
Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
Peace,  Enjoyment,  Love,  and  Pleasure! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever; 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

SONG 
(To  an  old  Scots  Tune) 

Behold  the  hour,  the  boat,  arrive! 

My  dearest  Nancy,  O  fareweel! 
Sever'd  frae  thee,  can  I  survive, 

Frae  thee  whom  I  hae  loved  sae  weel! 

Endless  and  deep  shall  be  my  grief; 

Nae  ray  o'  comfort  shall  I  see ; 
But  this  most  precious,  dear  belief! 

That  thou  wilt  still  remember  me. 

—233— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Alang  the  solitary  shore, 

Where  fleeting  sea-fowl  round  me  cry, 
Across  the  rolling,  dashing  roar, 

I'll  westward  turn  my  wistful  eye: 

Happy,  thou  Indian  grove,  I'll  say, 
Where  now  my  Nancy's  path  shall  be ! 

While  thro'  your  sweets  she  holds  her  way, 
O  tell  me,  does  she  muse  on  me!!! 


SONG 
To  a  charming  plaintive  Scots  Air. 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December! 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care; 
Sad  was  the  parting  thou  mak'st  me  remember, 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh,  ne'er  to  meet  mair! 

Fond  lovers'  parting  is  sweet,  painful  pleasure, 
Hope  beaming  mild  on  the  soft  parting  hour ; 

But  the  dire  feeling,  oh,  farewell  for  ever! 
Anguish  unmingled  and  agony  pure ! 

The  rest  of  this  song  is  on  the  wheels. 

Adieu.    Adieu. 

SYLVANDER. 
—234— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


The  song  was  afterward  finished  as  follows : 

Wild  as  the  winter  now  tearing  the  forest, 
Till  the  last  leaf  o'  the  summer  is  flown, 

Such  is  the  tempest  has  shaken  my  bosom, 
Since  my  last  hope  and  last  comfort  is  gone ! 

Still  as  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December, 
Still  shall  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care; 

For  sad  was  the  parting  thou  mak'st  me  re- 
member, 
Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh,  ne'er  to  meet  mair! 


—235— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


CLARINDA  TO  SYLVANDER      . 

25ih  January,  1792. 

Agitated,  hurried  to  death,  I  sit  down  to  write 
a  few  lines  to  you,  my  ever  dear,  dear  friend! 
We  are  ordered  aboard  on  Saturday, — to  sail  on 
Sunday.  And  now,  my  dearest  Sir,  I  have  a  few 
things  to  say  to  you,  as  the  last  advice  of  her,  who 
could  have  lived  or  died  with  you!  I  am  happy 
to  know  of  your  applying  so  steadily  to  the  busi- 
ness you  have  engaged  in;  but  oh,  remember,  this 
life  is  a  short,  passing  scene !  Seek  God's  favour, 
— keep  His  Commandments — be  solicitous  to 
prepare  for  a  happy  eternity!  There,  I  trust, 
we  will  meet,  in  perfect  and  never-ending  bliss. 
Read  my  former  letters  attentively:  let  the  re- 
ligious tenets  there  expressed  sink  deep  into  your 
mind;  meditate  on  them  with  candour,  and  your 
accurate  judgment  must  be  convinced  that  they 
accord  with  the  words  of  Eternal  Truth !  Laugh 
no  more  at  holy  things,  or  holy  men:  remember, 
"without  holiness,  no  man  shall  see  God."  An- 
other thing,  and  I  have  done:  as  you  value  my 
peace,  do  not  write  me  to  Jamaica,  until  I  let  you 
know  you  may  with  safety.  Write  Mary  often. 
She  feels  for  you!  and  judges  of  your  present 
feelings  by  her  own.  I  am  sure  you  will  be  happy 

—236— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


to  hear  of  my  happiness :  and  I  trust  you  will — 
soon.  If  there  is  time,  you  may  drop  me  a  line 
ere  I  go,  to  inform  me  if  you  get  this,  and  an- 
other letter  I  wrote  you,  dated  the  21st,  which  I 
am  afraid  of  having  been  neglected  to  be  put 
into  the  office. 

So  it  was  the  Rosette  you  were  to  have  gone  in! 
I  read  your  letter  to-day,  and  reflected  deeply  on 
the  ways  of  Heaven !  To  us  they  oft  appear  dark 
and  doubtful;  but  let  us  do  our  duty  faithfully, 
and  sooner  or  later  we  will  have  our  reward,  be- 
cause "the  Lord  God  Omnipotent  reigns" :  every 
upright  mind  has  here  cause  to  rejoice.  And 
now,  adieu.  May  Almighty  God  bless  you  and 
yours!  take  you  into  His  blessed  favour  here, 
and  afterward  receive  you  into  His  glory! 

Farewell!    I  will  ever,  ever  remain 

Your  reed  friend, 
A.  M. 

Poor  little  Clarinda!  She  probably  looked 
forward  to  a  most  romantic  correspondence  full 
of  noble  sentiment  enlivened  by  hopeless  passion, 
when,  safely  insulated  by  the  sea,  she  could  ar- 
range for  receiving  her  mail  without  disturbing 
the  conjugal  entente.  Alas  for  her  hopes,  that 
entente  proved  far  from  cordial.  Her  husband, 

—237— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


weakening  in  his  good  resolutions  (possibly  on 
the  receipt  of  her  letters  and  Mr.  Kemp's),  had 
urged  her  not  to  come,  alleging  that  yellow  fever 
was  raging  in  the  island  and  the  negroes  were 
in  revolt.  She  had  resolved  to  go,  however,  and 
go  she  did, — only  to  learn  upon  her  arrival  that 
the  warnings  were  untrue,  and  the  hard  fact  of 
the  matter  was  simply  that  he  did  not  want  her. 
He  was  both  unkind  and  unfaithful;  and  her 
humiliation  and  distress,  combined  with  the  ef- 
fect of  the  climate,  made  it  necessary  for  her 
health's  sake  to  return  to  Scotland.  Painful  as 
her  experience  had  been,  we  can  hardly  doubt 
her  relief  in  returning  to  her  congenial  Edin- 
burgh life,  all  former  compromising  circum- 
stances erased  by  her  martyrdom  in  the  name  of 
wifely  duty — a  martyrdom  which  it  is  logical  to 
assume  she  did  not  endure  in  silence.  She  did 
not  write  to  Burns  that  she  had  come  back;  that 
is  easy  to  understand.  That  mirk  night  o'  De- 
cember undoubtedly  left  matters  in  a  status  only 
to  be  continued  with  comfort  and  safety  on  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  ocean.  Back  in  the  same  little 
Scotland,  she  was  quite  evidently  afraid  of  him. 
He  was  not  to  be  dropped  so  easily,  however,  and 
wrote,  as  she  had  suggested,  to  her  friend. 

—238— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLAEINDA 


BURNS  TO  MARY  PEACOCK 

Dumfries,  Dec.  6,  1792. 
DEAR  MADAM — I  have  written  to  you  so  often 
and  have  got  no  answer,  that  I  had  resolved  never 
to  lift  up  a  pen  to  you  again;  but  this  eventful 
day,  the  sixth  of  December,  recalls  to  my  mem- 
ory such  a  scene!  Heaven  and  earth!  when  I 
remember  a  far-distant  person! — but  no  more 
of  this  until  I  learn  from  you  a  proper  address 
and  why  my  letters  have  lain  by  you  unanswered, 
as  this  is  the  third  I  have  sent  you.  The  oppor- 
tunities will  all  be  gone  now,  I  fear,  of  sending 
over  the  book  I  mentioned  in  my  last.  Do  not 
write  me  for  a  week,  as  I  shall  not  be  at  home; 
but  as  soon  after  that  as  possible. 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee,  thou  gloomy  December ! 

Ance  mair  I  hail  thee  wi'  sorrow  and  care; 

Dire  was  the  parting  thou  bidst  me  remember, 

Parting  wi'  Nancy,  oh,  ne'er  to  meet  mair! 

Yours, 

It.  15. 


—239— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

I  suppose,  my  dear  Madam,  that  by  your  neg- 
lecting to  inform  me  of  your  arrival  in  Europe, — 
a  circumstance  that  could  not  be  indifferent  to 
me,  as,  indeed,  no  occurrence  relating  to  you  can, 
— you  meant  to  leave  me  to  guess  and  gather  that 
a  correspondence  I  once  had  the  honour  and  felic- 
ity to  enjoy,  is  to  be  no  more.  Alas !  what  heavy- 
laden  sounds  are  these — "No  more!"  The  wretch 
who  has  never  tasted  pleasure,  has  never  known 
woe ;  what  drives  the  soul  to  madness,  is  the  recol- 
lection of  joys  that  are  "no  more!"  But  this  is 
not  language  to  the  world:  they  do  not  under- 
stand it.  But  come,  ye  few, — the  children  of 
Feeling  and  Sentiment! — ye  whose  trembling 
bosom-chords  ache  to  unutterable  anguish,  as 
recollection  gushes  on  the  heart! — ye  who  are 
capable  of  an  attachment,  keen  as  the  arrow  of 
Death  and  strong  as  the  vigour  of  immortal  be- 
ing,— come !  and  your  ears  shall  drink  a  tale 

But,  hush!  I  must  not,  cannot  tell  it;  agony  is 
in  the  recollection,  and  frenzy  in  the  recital! 

But,  Madam, — to  leave  the  paths  that  lead  to 
madness, — I  congratulate  your  friends  on  your 
return;  and  I  hope  that  the  precious  health,  which 
Miss  P.  tells  me  is  so  much  injured,  is  restored, 

—240— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


or  restoring.  There  is  a  fatality  attends  Miss 
Peacock's  correspondence  and  mine.  Two  of  my 
letters,  it  seems,  she  never  received;  and  her  last 
came  while  I  was  in  Ayrshire,  was  unfortunately 
mislaid  and  only  found  about  ten  days  or  a 
fortnight  ago,  on  removing  a  desk  of  drawers. 

I  present  you  a  book:  may  I  hope  you  will 
accept  of  it.  I  daresay  you  will  have  brought 
your  books  with  you.  The  fourth  volume  of  the 
Scots  Songs  is  published ;  I  will  presume  to  send 
it  you.  Shall  I  hear  from  you?  But  first  hear 
me.  No  cold  language — no  prudential  docu- 
ments: I  despise  advice  and  scorn  control.  If 
you  are  not  to  write  such  language,  such  senti- 
ments as  you  know  I  shall  wish,  shall  delight  to 
receive,  I  conjure  you,  by  wounded  pride!  by 
ruined  peace!  by  frantic,  disappointed  passion! 
by  all  the  many  ills  that  constitute  that  sum  of 
human  woes,  a  broken  heart!!! — to  me  be  silent 
for  ever. 

The  rest  of  this  letter  is  missing  from  the 
letter  in  Clarinda's  collection,  but  we  know  how 
it  ran,  because  Burns  included  this  "composition" 
as  Mr.  Chambers  aptly  characterises  it,  in  the 
volume  of  Letters  he  transcribed  for  Riddel.  It 
was  headed  by  him,  "Letter  to  a  Lady,  ciever 
scrolled,  but  copied  from  the  original  letter,"  and 

—241— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


he  added  this  disingenuous  comment:  "I  need 
scarcely  remark  that  the  foregoing  was  the 
fustian  rant  of  enthusiastic  youth." 

If  you  ever  insult  me  with  the  unfeeling 
apophthegms  of  cold-blooded  caution,  may  all 
the — but  hold!  a  fiend  could  not  breathe  a 
malevolent  wish  on  the  head  of  my  angel  1  Mind 
my  request — if  you  send  me  a  page  baptised  in 
the  font  of  sanctimonious  prudence,  by  heaven, 
earth  and  hell,  I  will  tear  it  to  atoms!  Adieu; 
may  all  good  things  attend  you! 

R.  B. 


—242— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


SYLVANDER  TO  CLARINDA 

Undated,  but  conjectured  as  1793  in  the  author- 
ized edition  of  the  Letters. 

Before  you  ask  me  why  I  have  not  written  you, 
first  let  me  be  informed  by  you,  how  I  shall  write 
you?  "In  friendship,"  you  say ;  and  I  have  many 
a  time  taken  up  my  pen  to  try  an  epistle  of 
"friendship"  to  you;  but  it  will  not  do:  'tis  like 
Jove  grasping  a  pop-gun,  after  having  yielded 
his  thunder.  When  I  take  up  the  pen,  recollec- 
tion ruins  me.  Ah!  my  ever  dearest  Clarinda! 
Clarinda!  What  a  host  of  memory's  tenderest 
offspring  crowd  on  my  fancy  at  that  sound !  But 
I  must  not  indulge  that  subject. — You  have  for- 
bid it. 

I  am  extremely  happy  to  learn  that  your 
precious  health  is  re-established  and  that  you  are 
once  more  fit  to  enjoy  that  satisfaction  in  exist- 
ence, which  health  alone  can  give  us.  My  old 
friend  Ainslie  has  indeed  been  kind  to  you.  Tell 
him  that  I  envy  him  the  power  of  serving  you. 
I  had  a  letter  from  him  a  while  ago,  but  it  was 
so  dry,  so  distant,  so  like  a  card  to  one  of  his 
clients,  that  I  could  scarce  bear  to  read  it,  and 
have  not  yet  answered  it.  He  is  a  good  honest 
fellow,  and  can  write  a  friendly  letter,  which 

—243— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


would  do  equal  honour  to  his  head  and  his  heart, 
as  a  whole  sheaf  of  his  letters  which  I  have  by 
me  will  witness ;  and  though  Fame  does  not  blow 
her  trumpet  at  my  approach  now,  as  she  did  then, 
when  he  first  honoured  me  with  his  friendship, 
yet  I  am  as  proud  as  ever;  and  when  I  am  laid 
in  my  grave,  I  wish  to  be  stretched  at  my  full 
length,  that  I  may  occupy  every  inch  of  ground 
I  have  a  right  to. 

You  would  laugh  were  you  to  see  me  where  I 
am  just  now.  Would  to  Heaven  you  were  here 
to  laugh  with  me,  though  I  am  afraid  that  crying 
would  be  our  first  employment.  Here  I  am  set, 
a  solitary  hermit,  in  the  solitary  room  of  a  soli- 
tary inn,  with  a  solitary  bottle  of  wine  by  me,  as 
grave  and  stupid  as  an  owl,  but  like  that  owl,  still 
faithful  to  my  old  song;  in  confirmation  of  which, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Mac,  here  is  your  good  health. 
May  the  hand-waled  benisons  o'  Heaven  bless 
your  bonnie  face ;  and  the  wratch  wha  skellies  at 
your  welfare,  may  the  auld  tinkler  deil  get  him 
to  clout  his  rotten  heart !  Amen. 

You  must  know,  my  dearest  Madam,  that 
these  now  many  years,  wherever  I  am,  in  what- 
ever company,  when  a  married  lady  is  called  as  a 
toast,  I  constantly  give  you;  but,  as  your  name 
has  never  passed  my  lips,  even  to  my  most  in- 

—244— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


timate  friend,  I  give  you  by  the  name  of  Mrs. 
Mac.  This  is  so  well  known  among  my  acquaint- 
ances, that  when  any  married  lady  is  called  for, 
the  toast-master  will  say:  "Oh,  we  need  not 
ask  him  who  it  is:  here's  Mrs.  Mac!"  I  have 
also,  among  my  convivial  friends,  set  on  foot  a 
round  of  toasts,  which  I  call  a  round  of  Arcadian 
Shepherdesses ;  that  is  a  round  of  favourite  ladies 
under  female  names  celebrated  in  ancient  song; 
and  then  you  are  my  Clarinda.  So,  my  lovely 
Clarinda,  I  devote  this  glass  of  wine  to  a  most 
ardent  wish  for  your  happiness. 

In  vain  would  Prudence,  with  decorous  sneer, 
Point  out  a  censuring  world,  and  bid  me  fear: 
Above  that  world  on  wings  of  love  I  rise, 
I  know  its  worst,  and  can  that  worst  despise. 

"Wrong'd,    injured,    shunned,    unpitied,    un- 
redrest ; 

The  mock'd  quotation  of  the  scorner's  jest" 

Let  Prudence'  direst  bodements  on  me  fall, 
Clarinda,  rich  reward!   o'erpays  them  all. 


I  have  been  rhyming  a  little  of  late,  but  I  do 
not  know  if  they  are  worth  postage. 

Tell  me  what  you  think  of  the   following 
monody. 

—245-- 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


Here  follows  the  "Monody  on  a  lady  famed 
for  her  caprice." 

The  subject  of  the  foregoing  is  a  woman  of 
fashion  in  this  country,  with  whom  at  one  period 
I  was  well  acquainted.  By  some  scandalous  con- 
duct to  me,  and  two  or  three  other  gentlemen 
here  as  well  as  me,  she  steered  so  far  to  the 
north  of  my  good  opinion,  that  I  have  made  her 
the  theme  of  several  ill-natured  things.  The  fol- 
lowing epigram  struck  me  the  other  day  as  I 
passed  her  carriage. 

PINNED   TO   MRS.    R 's   COACH 

If  you  rattle  along  like  your  Mistress'  tongue, 

Your  speed  will  out-rival  the  dart; 
But,  a  fly  for  your  load,  you'll  break  down  on  the 

road 
If  your  stuff  be  as  rotten's  her  heart. 

R.B. 

We  know  well  enough  the  story  of  Burns'  last 
years  and  of  his  death.  His  great  fellow-coun- 
tryman has  given  us  the  soul  of  it  in  a  few  words. 
"To  the  ill-starred  Burns  was  given  the  power  of 
making  man's  life  more  venerable,  but  that  of 
wisely  guiding  his  own  life  was  not  given.  Des- 
tiny— for  so  in  our  ignorance  we  must  speak — 

—246— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


his  faults,  the  faults  of  others,  proved  too  hard 
for  him,  and  that  spirit  which  might  have  soared 
could  it  but  have  walked,  soon  sank  to  the  dust, 
its  glorious  faculties  trodden  under  foot  in  the 
blossom;  and  died,  we  may  almost  say,  without 
ever  having  lived.  And  so  kind  and  warm  a 
soul,  so  full  of  inborn  riches,  of  love  to  all  living 
and  lifeless  things!"  .  .  .  As  Stevenson  briefly 
phrased  it,  "He  died  of  being  Robert  Burns." 

It  is  pitiful  enough,  that  closing  scene,  beset 
with  little  mean  cares,  half  of  them  goblins  of 
that  delirium  against  the  terror  of  which  he 
begged  the  comfort  of  Jean's  work-worn  hands. 
But  to  my  mind  far  more  pitiable  is  the  spectacle 
of  "divine  Clarinda,"  a  chirpy  old  lady  addicted 
to  snuff,  complacently  sunning  her  failing  wits 
in  the  radiance  of  her  great  lover's  fame.  Con- 
sider carefully  these  extracts  from  her  letters  to 
Mr.  Syme,  who  approached  her  on  the  subject  of 
the  publication  of  her  correspondence  with  Burns 
in  a  new  edition  of  the  poet's  works,  and  com- 
pare them  with  the  statement  from  the  preface 
written  for  the  authorised  edition  of  the  corre- 
spondence published  in  1843,  by  Mrs.  M'Lehose's 
grandson — a  gentleman  who  is  disposed  to  deal 
charitably  with  his  ancestress,  as  is  proven  by  this 
memorable  sentence,  also  in  the  preface:  "The 

—247—- 


SYLVANDEtt   AND   CLARINDA 


visionary  hopes  entertained  by  the  poet  were  gen- 
erally checked  by  Clarinda  with  a  happy  mixture 
of  dignity  and  mildness  bespeaking  inward 
purity." 


—248— 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


EXTRACTS  OF  LETTERS  FROM  MRS.  M'LEHOSE 
TO  MR.  JOHN  SYME 

What  can  have  impressed  such  an  idea  upon 
you,  as  that  I  ever  conceived  the  most  distant 
intention  to  destroy  these  precious  memorials  of 
an  acquaintance,  the  recollection  of  which  would 
influence  me  were  I  to  live  till  fourscore!  Be 
assured  I  will  never  suffer  one  of  them  to  perish. 
This  I  give  you  my  solemn  word  of  honour  upon ; 
— nay,  more,  on  condition  that  you  send  me  my 
letters,  I  will  select  such  passages  from  our  dear 
bard's  letters  as  will  do  honour  to  his  memory 
and  cannot  hurt  my  own  fame,  even  with  the 
most  rigid.  His  letters,  however,  are  really  not 
literary;  they  are  the  passionate  effusions  of  an 
elegant  mind — indeed,  too  tender  to  be  exposed 
to  any  but  the  eye  of  a  partial  friend.  Were  the 
world  composed  of  minds  such  as  yours,  it  would 
be  cruel  even  to  bury  them;  but  ah!  how  very 
few  would  understand,  much  less  relish,  such 
compositions !  The  bulk  of  mankind  are  strangers 
to  the  delicate  refinements  of  superior  minds. 

Edinburgh,  9th  January,  1797. 
Dear  Sir, — I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  the 
speedy  return  you  made  to  my  last  letter.  .  .  . 

—249— 


SYLVANDER   AND   CLARINDA 


I  am  happy  that  you  have  consented  to  return 
the  letters  at  last,  and  that  my  pledge  has  pleased 
you.  .  .  .  You  must  pardon  me  for  refusing  to 
send  B.'s.  I  never  will.  I  am  determined  not  to 
allow  them  to  be  out  of  my  house;  but  it  will  be 
quite  the  same  to  you,  as  you  shall  see  them  all 
when  you  come  to  Edinburgh  next  month.  Do 
write  me  previous  to  your  arrival,  and  name  the 
day,  that  I  may  be  at  home  and  guard  against 
our  being  interrupted  in  perusing  these  dear 
memorials  of  our  lamented  friend.  I  hold  them 
sacred — too  sacred  for  the  public  eye;  and  I  am 
sure  you  will  agree  they  are  so  when  you  see 
them.  If  any  argument  could  have  prevailed  on 
me,  the  idea  of  their  affording  pecuniary  assist- 
ance was  most  likely.  But  I  am  convinced  they 
would  have  added  little  to  this  effect:  for  I 
heard,  by  a  literary  conversation  here,  that  it  was 
thought  by  most  people  there  would  be  too  much 
intended  to  be  published;  and  that  letters  espe- 
cially it  was  nonsense  to  give  as  few  would  be 
interested  in  them.  This  I  thought  strange,  and 
so  will  a  few  enthusiastic  admirers  of  our  bard; 
but  I  fear  'tis  the  general  voice  of  the  public.  .  .  . 
there  are  few  souls  anywhere  who  understood  or 
could  enter  into  the  relish  of  such  a  character  as 
B.'s.  There  was  an  electricity  about  him  which 
—250— 


SYLVANDER   AND    CLARINDA 


could  only  touch  or  pervade  a  few  cast  in  nature's 
finest  mould.  .  .  . 

Yours  with  regard, 

CLARINDA. 


—251- 


SYLVANDER  AND    CLARINDA 


EXTRACT   FROM   THE    PREFACE   WRITTEN   BY 
MRS.  M'LEHOSE'S  GRANDSON. 

"In  reading  the  correspondence  of  Burns  and 
Clarinda,  the  reader  will  perceive  that  several  of 
her  letters,  and  perhaps  three  or  four  of  his,  are 
wanting;  and  that,  in  those  published,  various 
passages  are  short-coming.  A  brief  explanation, 
in  relation  to  their  custody,  is  therefore  deemed 
necessary.  Clarinda  survived  forty-four  years; 
and  it  is  perhaps  a  matter  of  surprise  that  the 
Letters  should  have  been  so  well  preserved  and 
so  few  lost  in  such  a  long  period. 

"In  some  of  the  Poet's  letters,  pieces  have  been 
cut  out,  to  gratify  (it  is  supposed)  collectors  of 
autographs,  as  it  is  well  known  that  Mrs.  IML'Le-* 
hose  was  much  harassed  with  such  applications; 
they  are,  besides,  much  torn,  which  was  incidental 
to  the  frequent  handling  of  them,  for  they  were 
exhibited  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  visitors. 
These  are  the  sole  causes  of  a  few  blanks  being 
observable  in  the  letters." 

The  italics  are  ours. 


—252— 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


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